


Miracle Child

by bramblePatch



Series: Childstuck [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Alien Mythology/Religion, Alternian Navy, Ashen Romance, Auspistice, Blood, CSIstuck, Character Death, Conscription, Cult of the Mirthful Messiahs, Cult of the Signless Sufferer, Desecrating Corpses for Art Supplies, Dreambubbles, Drug Use, Emotional Abuse, Gore, Moirallegiance, Multi, Other, Physical Abuse, Post-Sgrub, Separation, Subjugglators, Technicolor Bodily Fluids, Vauge Circus Bullshit, Violence, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-19
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 136,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bramblePatch/pseuds/bramblePatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than two sweeps after being returned to a restored Alternia, the trolls face impending adulthood and banishment from the planet. Gamzee Makara fully expects to be culled on conscription for poor health and sopor addiction - what he doesn't count on is the personal attention and protection of the Grand Highblood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Miss You When I'm Culled

**Author's Note:**

> We're back, after a too-long hiatus! Thanks for joining me on this crazy journey, and please visit [the Miracle Child blog on tumblr](http://miraclechildask.tumblr.com) for all of your fanart, worldbuilding, and character harassing needs.

The conscription fleet is still days away, but Gamzee fancies he can catch a glimpse of a glimmer reflecting off the hull of one of the great ships in the starry sky. He lifts an arm to point it out, and with an irritated sigh, Karkat humors him and looks up.

"There's nothing up there," him moirail tells him. "Well, nothing new anyway. Just a million asshole stars looking down and judging us."

Gamzee grins slowly, and without warning turns to flop over and lie with his head on one of Karkat's folded knees. The rough cement of the roof is still warm beneath his back, warmer even than the scarlet-blooded troll's leg beneath Gamzee's head. It's odd, not being able to hear the ocean when he's outside, but they'd both agreed that this was a time they needed to be together, and Karkat has not gone more than a few miles from his hive since their eyes began to fill with color nearly a sweep ago.

"You know something, palebro?" Gamzee asks, as Karkat pushes his head aside, just a little, so that the indigo's horn doesn't poke him in the stomach.

"What." The annoyance is laced heavily with amusement. Karkat looks down at Gamzee, his face at a comical angle from the clown's perspective, his hair a thick, short tangle against the rich purple of the sky.

"I'm gonna motherfucking miss you when I'm culled," replies Gamzee.

Karkat goes rigid, sharp lines against the brilliant night sky. When he speaks, his voice is hard and sharp as well. "What the everpitying fuck are you talking about, bulgebite?" he demands, lifting a hand to curl around one of Gamzee's horns, claws digging uncomfortably into the soft keratin where orange turns to yellow. "Why the hell would you even say that? You are _not_ getting culled."

Gamzee shrugs, reaches up to gently pry Karkat's hand from his horn and folds their fingers together. "I mean, fucking look at me, I ain't cut out for adult life, any motherfucker with functioning eyes can be telling that. Probably be culling me before we get on the ships, just to save the space," he says philosophically. Karkat tries to reply, and Gamzee cuts him off with a vague wave of his free hand. "Chill, bro, chill. I got a good run - nearly nine sweeps, right? How many bitches make it to nine? Especially with an absent lusus and a bottle-a-day sopor habit?"

"Then don't go meet the conscription drones, slimepan!" Karkat exclaims. "This is literally the easiest concept on the planet, you should not need me to explain this to you. A bunch of us are heading for the hills, you know."

"Eh." Gamzee realizes his hand is still in mid-air; the lanky angles of his wrist and knuckles forming utterly mundane shapes that strike him as unspeakably fanciful.

"I'm serious!" Karkat continues, sounding annoyed at his moirail's dismissive non-answer. "We're not letting them hook Sollux up in the belly of some ship, or cull Tavros for being a cripple. And we're not going to let them get their forks in you for being a fucking immature, sopored-up _pathetic_ mess, even if you _are_!" Hanging unsaid is, and we're not letting them kill me for being a disgusting mutant; that's not something to say aloud, even if the lawnrings around Karkat's hive are empty.

"So'm I," Gamzee grunts. He reaches up, takes hold of Karkat's chin and makes the other troll look down at him. "A few lowbloods can go missing, and the drones won't be getting their bother on - but there ain't enough of us indigos to ignore if one of us ain't accounted for. I don't show, and they'll have motherfuckers out looking for me. And Karkat - I ain't worth putting the rest of you in danger like that."

Karkat's jaw is tense in Gamzee's hand, and although he can't turn away, his red eyes are flicking everywhere but Gamzee's face. Red-tinted tears begin to well, and Karkat wipes them away angrily with the back of his free hand. "You're really ready to go through with this fucked up charade of self-sacrifice, aren't you?"

"Hundred-percent motherfucking honest," Gamzee says, as solemnly as is possible through the sopor. "You need this rebellion, invertebrother. You got a chance, too, I figure. Be a pretty poor moirail if I let myself get in the way of that miracle, wouldn't I? Just... watch out for Tav, would you?"

Karkat loses it then, trying to draw a ragged breath and breaking down in wracking sobs. Gamzee pushes himself upright and draws the smaller troll to him, shooshing him, papping him on the back as Karkat clings to the front of Gamzee's shirt.

Wishing he was actually as sanguine about this whole mess as the show he's putting on for his moirail.


	2. Wearing My Shade

A couple of nights later, the conscription fleet touches down, and all trolls over the age of eight sweeps are required to present themselves at the nearest recruitment depot. Despite the triple-portion of sopor pie Gamzee consumed before coming, he finds himself uncomfortably on edge; without the numbing slime, he is sure, he would not have the nerve to come, _would_ follow Karkat and the others into the wild hills and in doing so, bring down the drones on the entire group.

No, this is better. For once in his life, Gamzee Makara will be something of a hero. He nearly destroyed the group once, in that time outside of time that none of them like to talk about now. He will not do it again.

Not all of the trolls who played Sgrub are going with Karkat into hiding; before they are divided into separate queues by hue, Gamzee returns Terezi's excited wave, grins muzzily at Equius's barely noticable nod of greeting. Perhaps some of the others are here as well, just out of sight, lost in the crowd of anxious, anticipatory adolescents.

Then they are funneled into separate groups; masses of russets and rusts and ochres, crowds of yellows and greens. Clusters of blues. A scant handful of sea-dwellers, in which Eridan stands proudly and Feferi, he notices, does not.

And in the area Gamzee is herded to, a dozen of the indigo-blooded, trolls he has never met and yet apparently shares some kinship with. A pair circle each other warily, posturing and growling, but most of them wait quietly - composed, or as stoned as Gamzee? He offers a lazy smile to a girl with asymmetrically curled horns and paint - he thinks it's paint, but it might possibly be blood - under her nails and on her shirt. She looks at him over the rim of her glasses with what might be caution and might be arrogance, and then offers a lopsided smile of her own.

A few huge, angular figures of adult trolls begin to circle the edges of the crowds, watching coldly as the drones go to work with the culling forks that form crude approximations of the elegant weapons Feferi favors. In the indigo sector, the conscription drones begin to move through the group, unceremoniously culling a boy too feral to stand at attention, a girl who cries out and steps forward as the fork slides home in the feral's chest, a boy who reeks of acid-dreamstone. Gamzee closes his eyes as the drone approaches him, knowing the signs that sweeps of sopor abuse have writ clearly on his body, signs that the conscription drone will note and mark him unsuitable.

But the trident never strikes.

Because moments after Gamzee closes his eyes, a gravely voice sounds, one that hits harmonics which make his horns itch. "WAIT RIGHT THERE, DRONE. Leave that one."

Gamzee's eyes fly open, and this must be some sort of new sopor-induced miracle hallucination to ease his death and bear him to the mirthful messiahs, because one of the adults is stepping forward, taller and more massive than any troll Gamzee has ever seen. The adult stands head and shoulders over the lanky young indigo, who knows he is already equal, or nearly, in height to most adults. Gently curving horns curl through a tangle of wiry hair. Paint streaks his craggy face.

And, miraculously, the adult - the subjugglator, Gamzee realizes through the haze of sopor - grabs Gamzee roughly by the arm and shoves him into the small clump of indigo trolls accepted for the ranks of the interstellar navy. The drone chatters and shrieks at the adult in a dialect that Gamzee cannot understand, and the huge subjugglator strikes it with a backhand that sends it stumbling. "HE'S WEARING MY SHADE, THAT'S WHY," he roars, then looks down at Gamzee in a terrifying approximation of affection and adds, "He's wearing my symbol."

 

The shuttle is elegant but spartan, the kind of space that speaks of luxury but can still be cleaned easily should it become splattered with blood or less pleasant fluids. It is a far cry, certainly, from the freighters that are now opening their gaping hatches down at the warm-colored end of the field. The drones are no more gentle, though, and the indigos are herded into their transport with just as much prodding and snarling as the crowds of lowbloods.

Even on the smaller craft, there is more than enough room for the seven of them - seven! Nearly half of their number culled, and Gamzee is still not clear on why it wasn't an even six. Gamzee grabs a window seat near the back and pulls his knees up to his chest, folding gangly limbs in as compact as he can in the hopes that he will not actually manage to shake himself to bits. He's still not entirely convinced that this is not a dying vision, but it is seeming less and less likely by the minute.

Gamzee is alive. Gamzee has been conscripted. Gamzee caught the personal attention of a high-ranking subjugglator and somehow is still in one piece.

A miracle? A joke? He's not sure. He's not thinking clearly, wishes now that he hadn't been quite so heavy-handed with the sopor this evening, but he's fairly sure that this does not fit neatly into any of his preconceived categories of things that make no goddamn sense whatsoever.

Most of the others group near the front of the shuttle, giving Gamzee cautious or suspicious glances as they pass him. Hell, if he weren't so fucked up right now, he'd probably be giving himself funny looks, too. If he weren't him, which at the moment is more or less synonymous with if he weren't so fucked up. Wouldn't that be a miracle? But he is him, is the tall, too-thin troll with the darker than normal circles under his eyes obscured behind thick greasepaint and the ragged, ill-kept nails that are not quite long and sharp enough to be called claws.

Karkat was always after him to cut his nails or file them to proper sharp claws, and sometimes Gamzee would listen. Not often, though. On the scale of things Karkat worried about, Gamzee's fingernails always seemed fairly minor.

Movement catches the corner of Gamzee's eye, and he glances over to see the girl with the curling horns settling carefully in the aisle seat across from him. She gingerly prods at a long, shallow scratch along one arm, which leaks blood just a little bluer than Gamzee's own. Looking up, she sees him staring, and grimaces.

"Lousy stupid freaking goddamn... stupid... drone," she mutters, looking at the blue-violet that stains her fingers and then begins tracing loops and spirals up her own arm in her own blood.

Gamzee offers a shaky smile - there is nothing about him that is not shaky right now. "Close call with one of the motherfuckers, huh?"

She looks up in the middle of smearing an intricate flower-like shape on her shoulder, raises an eyebrow. "You're one to talk, you are. Would've skewered _you_."

There's not really much that can be said to that. Gamzee nods.

"Why didn't they? Why would the Gee-Aich stick his neck out for you?"

Gamzee thinks, or tries to. The thoughts won't string together right; the sopor is finally cutting through the adrenaline in the way he had hoped it would when he expected to die. After a long moment, he shrugs. "Ain't got the foggiest fucking clue," he admits. "Miracles, I guess."

The girl looks at him for an equally long moment, eyes flicking across his painted face. "You're Juggalo, aren't you?"

He brightens slightly, managing a smile that isn't quite so ready to collapse his entire face at a moment's notice. "Damn straight. You down with the clown, sister?"

To his disappointment - at least, he thinks it's disappointment, it's a little hard to sort right now - she shakes her head. "Nah, nah, not me," she says, although with a smile. She's got a bit of an underbite, three fangs showing. "My Muse is enough for me, but I know the Cult's got some _amazing_ artists, in the Cult. You paint?"

"Only my face," he replies. Something fights through the sopor, some idea of what one is supposed to do when one meets new people and they are not actively trying to kill one, and he lets go of his knees to lean across the empty seat next to him and offer a handshake. "I'm Gamzee Makara."

She hesitates only a moment, as if trying to sort out protocol herself - or pondering the chances of a contact high - then reaches over and takes his hand, her fingers still tacky with her own blood. "Lazapi Ultmar," she replies.

They both jump as the hatch of the shuttle slams shut somewhere not far behind them. There's a finality in the sound that Gamzee didn't expect. He doesn't really listen to the crackling, distorted voice that comes over the intercom, giving the standard "hold on or buckle up and if you don't then any injury you sustain is your own damn fault" announcement, and although he leans against the window, Gamzee does not look out. Alternia's no longer relevant to his existence, and anyway, it's getting harder and harder to focus on anything but the rainbows behind his own eyes. If Lazapi attempts to continue the conversation, he doesn't notice.

He doesn't notice much of anything, except the undeniable miracle that he expected death this evening, and seems to have contracted a fresh case of friendship instead.

 

Gamzee is not sure just where he is when he comes to, but his shoulders and neck and hips ache, and he feels rather as if someone has filled his mouth and sinuses with bleatbeast's wool and then baked his head. From this, he surmises that he rather overdid it with the sopor and then did not make it into the recupracoon before falling asleep. It doesn't explain, though, the molded-plastic seat beneath him, or the faintly astringent scent on the too-dry air.

Nor does it explain the fact that he is being roughly shaken, or why someone is snarling and shouting.

"...Boy, I SWEAR if you are a USELESS FUCK and make me look a fool for knocking that drone around I WILL CULL YOU MYSELF WITH A DULL FORK, if you like your skin you better just WAKE THE HELL UP." The voice hits some frequency that makes the bases of his horns itch something fierce, and somehow that's what brings him back to the evening's events. He opens his eyes, squinting against the burgeoning headache that threatens to grow into a full-on migraine, and flinches; the intricately painted face of the adult who saved him earlier is far too close to his own for comfort.

"Wha...?" is the most intelligent response Gamzee can muster, and if he'd expected to live, he never would have eaten so much sopor at one go. He is still loopy and confused, nursing one hell of a hangover, and when the subjugglator's face twists into a new configuration it takes Gamzee a few seconds to recognize it as a savage smile.

Then Gamzee is dragged bodily out of his seat and into the aisle of the now-empty shuttle; he's not sure at first if he can stand under his own power, but continuing to hang in the adult's vice-like grip proves to be more painful and somehow he manages to get his feet firmly under him. The subjugglator doesn't let go, but at least now Gamzee's own weight isn't driving the claws into his arms.

The older troll looks down at him, brows knitting under the paint. When he speaks, his voice is more modulated, more controlled - and maybe it's just the lingering sopor doing odd things to his thinkpan, but Gamzee almost thinks the adult sounds like _him_ , when he isn't yelling. "You hurt, kid? I fucking swear, if the drones laid a claw on you after I left, say," he growls. "I will have the entire clutch destroyed."

Gamzee shakes his head slowly. "Fuck, no, br- sir," he replies, almost failing to catch the mode of address; calling this troll "bro" seems a poor idea. "I'm chill."

"You certain?" demands the adult, giving Gamzee a little shake.

"Abso-motherfucking-lutely," he confirms, and barely pauses before adding, "I think Lazapi got a cut, though. Looked pretty brutal."

"Who," the subjugglator asks, "the fuck is Lazapi?"

Gamzee gulps, or tries to; his mouth is still incredibly dry. "Lazapi... Ultmar," he says, struggling a little to remember her second name. "Chica was on the transport - one'a the other new recruits..."

"Oh. Her." his... captor? savior?... sighs. "Miss Ultmar can take care of herself, on account of how she's not a shit-panned idiot."

A short moment passes, and the adult releases Gamzee's arms, just to grab him by one horn and pull him along as he exits the transport. "Come on, then, if I ain't got to slaughtertain a bitch, we've got shit to get done," he says. Gamzee would be gazing around in rapt fascination, but the adult's grip on his horn makes turning his head problematic.

Still, even if he can't take the time to properly appreciate the place, it still seems to Gamzee that it's a shame to leave the spacious shuttleport behind with so little ceremony, no matter what miracles await elsewhere on the warship.

 

Gamzee sees what seems like a great deal of the ship, albeit at some speed and while being towed along by his horn in a way that takes a little while for him to adjust to so that the pressure doesn't send jolting waves of pain rippling through his already aching head. He does notice that practically all the trolls they see give them a wide berth, lowbloods all but fleeing to watch from open doors as the two pass, blues and the occasional aquatic purple getting out of their way in a manner which may be more dignified but carries an equal urgency.

He feels the other trolls' eyes on them as they pass, dozens of pairs of intensely colored eyes, and in his distraction stumbles slightly, earning another spark of pain that shoots from his horn-bed to a spot directly behind his eyes.

Before too incredibly long, though, they turn off into an area that seems to have a disproportionate number of young trolls in mid to high hues; most still older than Gamzee, but not yet at full height and bulk and horn complexity. These make even less pretense about scattering from the subjugglator's path, or about staring at Gamzee. He waves, a little self-consciously, at a few of them, and receives looks of utter confusion in return.

Their destination proves to be a small lounge at the end of a twisting corridor, furnished again in the style of easy-to-wipe-blood-from. The room is already populated by young trolls - the other indigos from the shuttle, he realizes. The adult gives him a shove toward the group, and Gamzee stumbles forward, barks his shin on a low table, and comes to rest sprawled across said table. Laughter fills the room and dies away just as quickly, more nervous in tone than malicious.

Gamzee climbs to his feet, feeling the chill of indigo rush to his face. He's a little grateful that any blushing he does above the neck is hidden by his thick makeup. Someone grabs him and pulls him over to one of the simple couches; he sits down heavily and looks at the rainbow-speckled hand around his wrist for a moment before his eyes track up a narrow arm and finally to Lazapi's face. She's giving him a "what the hell" kind of look, and he grins at her. Gamzee is well used to receiving "what the hell" kinds of looks.

He's about to say something - not sure what, exactly, but something - when the sole adult troll in the room begins to speak. Or yell, as the case might be. "Ok, who here has an attention span of FIVE FUCKING MINUTES?"

One of the boys who Gamzee has not yet met begins to raise his hand, and gets elbowed, hard, in the ribs by the girl next to him, who is purple enough that she sports underdeveloped facial fins. The adult doesn't seem to notice the movement.

"Right. Most of you - the ones who are NOT COMPLETELY MENTALLY DEFICIENT - have probably figured out by now that this is an imperial barracks-carrier, and more specifically, the subjugglator novitiate quarters. WHICH MAKES YOU MARGINALLY LESS WORTHLESS THAN MOST OF THE SCUM ON THIS SHIP. Marginally."

He steps forward, rests one foot on the caffeinated-refreshment table that Gamzee tripped over a moment ago, and glowers at the group a bit more. "I am the Grand Highblood. Which means I am FAR TOO FUCKING IMPORTANT TO PLAY LUSUS TO A HANDFUL OF GRUBS, so you are going to listen to your instructors and take some damn responsibility for yourselves and THANK THE MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS when I find the time to make sure you haven't all gotten yourselves culled for gross incompetence."

"Your blocks are that way." He makes a vague gesture toward an open doorway. "You get a goddamn blockmate because we're not made of space. Your signs are already on the doors. Try not to kill each other. Or don't. I don't really care."

The Grand Highblood points to the other side of the room, where a closed door stands. "That passage connects to the subjugglator accomadations proper, and if you get underfoot YOU _WILL_ BE FUCKING CULLED IN WHATEVER MANNER SEEMS MOST AMUSING AT THE TIME."

Gamzee risks a glance at the other young trolls, and is a little relieved to see that several of them seem at least a little shaken as well. Lazapi seems suddenly to realize that her hand is still on Gamzee's wrist; she pulls it back and folds her hands in her own lap.

The Highblood continues, "You start being less of failures at everything tomorrow; you'll get more details in the evening. CARNIVAL OBSERVANCES are three hours before curfew FOR THOSE WHO WISH TO ATTEND; otherwise, your time is your own tonight." He turns away and, taking this as a dismissal, the clump of eight-sweep-olds begins to stir, stretching, talking, moving in ones and twos toward the hallway that leads to their new respitblocks.

Then, as Gamzee is starting to seriously consider standing up, headache or no headache, the subjugglator turns back to look straight at him and adds, "You. Capricorn. I need to talk to you."


	3. So Obviously Fucked Up by Something

Gamzee is ushered down the passageway which has just been pointed out as leading to areas not safe for novitiates to walk, but the Grand Highblood is very pointedly with him, so he figures it's probably ok for now. With his head swimming and aching, he finds it a little hard to care, anyway. Gamzee wants a good long sleep, or another pie, or his moirail - or all three, and not necessarily in that order - but the latter is quite firmly out of reach now, and he's beginning to suspect that the first two are going to be hard to come by in the immediate future, as well.

The Grand Highblood - Gamzee remembers enough to know that the title denotes not only a high-ranking subjugglator, but in fact the _highest_ \- stops so suddenly that Gamzee almost runs into him, and opens one of the doors that dots the hallway. He grabs Gamzee by the shoulder and pushes him inside, into what appears to be a luxuriously appointed adminisblock, a slightly ajar door in one corner giving the smallest glimpse of a respitblock. The walls, where not taken up by computer monitors, are hung with tapestries in every color and shade, eye-searingly bright artificial dyes interspersed with the more subtle tones that Gamzee is sure were produced with blood. Along the back wall is a huge desk - broad, cluttered, and a little bloodstained - and the wall behind the desk is dominated by a huge, multicolored banner bearing a very familiar symbol.

Slowly, Gamzee turns to look back at the adult who now leans against the closed door with his arms crossed over his chest, for the first time getting a good look at him without the distractions of general mayhem or of being bodily dragged and pushed around. Finally, all the little details he'd almost noticed come together in a coherent picture - wiry twists of hair that have probably never laid flat in the troll's life. Dramatically long horns that don't quite wave and don't quite spiral. A face that is long and angular under the intricate makeup, and an almost impossibly tall build.

And, of course, emblazoned at the Grand Highblood's belt - the Insignia of Capricorn.

Gamzee lifts one long hand to the front of his own ratty shirt, the adult's words on the recruitment fields finally coming back to him. " _Motherfuck_ ," he breaths reverently.

His Ancestor facepalms. "Mirthful fucking Messiahs, you _just_ figured it out, didn't you? Oh, she is going to have a fucking _field day_ with this."

Gamzee doesn't question who "she" is; he's too caught up on the revelation. "This is motherfucking bitchtits wicked amazing miraculous," he says in awe, and the Grand Highblood gives him a withering look as he lowers his hand.

"Kid, the vast majority of those words didn't actually mean anything. You sound like a fucking imbecile," he snaps. "What the ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

Gamzee flinches a little from the sudden shout - as much out of surprise and a suddenly intensified headache as out of fear - and backs away as the adult advances on him, until the edge of the desk catches Gamzee across the backs of his legs. He puts out his hands to steady himself, fingers curling around the edge of the desk and palms sliding ever so slightly on loose leaves of paper. Still the Grand Highblood moves forward, and Gamzee retreats in the only way he can, moving to boost himself up and sit on the edge of the desk. For a moment, he almost considers going for a weapon. But no, with the way his hands are shaking - intimidation or coming down off sopor, it doesn't make much difference what the cause is - he'd likely be dead by the time he managed to get into his strife portfolio, let alone withdraw a weapon.

"WELL?" The adult towers over him, standing so close that their legs are nearly touching at the edge of the desk. "That wasn't a rhetorical question, idiot! You are SO OBVIOUSLY FUCKED UP by SOMETHING, and I need to know if it's something you can fix or if you're just going to continue being a FUCKING DISGRACE until someone finishes the job I interrupted back on Alternia."

For what seems like an impossibly long moment, Gamzee's thinkpan refuses to work, or maybe it's his mouth; or maybe both are working just fine but someone cut the connection between the two. Fucking sopor slime - the thought comes, all rainbow-edged, the kind of thought he's vaguely aware he'll probably regret later but seems such a miracle now. It's all the motherfucking sopor's fault and he might as well lay blame where blame is due, because those pies were supposed to be his _friends_ and get him all through to the Dark Carnival without doing anything that would endanger his moirail or his matesprit or any of his other bros, and all they've done is get him menaced by his own Ancestor.

"Sopor," he chokes out, his voice more fractured than usual. "I ate baked sopor."

The Grand Highblood makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a groan. "What the fuck made you think that was a good idea?" he demands, and, without waiting for an answer, "How much slime did you eat?"

Gamzee tries to calculate how much actual slime went into the three pies he ate - a little more than one of those flasks that's supposed to contain a night's worth of recupracoon additive into each pie, so... "Three'n'a half bottles?" he hazards, unsure of himself.

The subjugglator strikes him, an open-handed blow that rattles his jaw and smears his facepaint. "Don't make shit up, boy, you'd be _dead_ on that much," the Grand Highblood snarls. "It takes SWEEPS to build up that kind of resistance."

The younger troll nods miserably, gingerly prodding along his jaw to be sure he isn't seriously injured. "The slime's all kinda a long-term thing," he admits.

He's rewarded with a scowl, but not any further physical violence. " _How_ long term?"

"Pretty regularly since I was four?" Gamzee replies, trying to remember. Yes, four sweeps was when he found the pie recepie; the rest is history. And six sweeps was... well, was the last time he can remember being fully sober, the circumstances surrounding that event. "Heavier motherfucking doses in the last couple of sweeps, and shit."

The Grand Highblood seems to ponder this for a moment, then moves off, circling the desk to access a computer terminal. He jabs at the keyboard with a kind of methodical violence, and almost without meaning to, Gamzee leans back to try and get a look at the screen.

"I've set your recupracoon to half-potency," the adult explains. "I'd take the bitch lower, but you'd probably somnambush one of your idiot sweepmates. You're not getting _any_ fucking access to straight sopor, and if I find you be buying, begging, or bullying it, or full-strength recupracoon cocktail, off of _anyone_ on this fucking ship, I cull you and your supplier both. And I WILL find out. UNDERSTOOD?"

Gamzee nods, a knot of panic forming in his throat - _can_ he safely go off sopor at all? His record is not exactly shining, if the past is any indication it's only a matter of time before he starts killing indiscriminately, not even culling the unworthy but just straight-up _killing_ any motherfucker who catches his attention... But no, what would Karkat tell him?

Karkat would point out, harshly but not unkindly, that this time around Tavros is safe and that on this ship, if anyone questions his faith Gamzee will not only have full access to them but will probably have to stand in line to beat on them. Karkat would point out that only a grub with a deficient thinkpan would choose certain death over possible death, and that Gamzee doesn't have the best track record on that front lately anyway so maybe he better make up some ground.

Karkat would be absolutely terrified out of his fucking wits by the concept, but past some initial swearing and grumbling wouldn't let that get in the way of making sure Gamzee keeps all his parts intact in the near future.

The Grand Highblood, for his part, seems almost certainly unaware of Gamzee's mental turmoil. He reaches over to give Gamzee a shove off of the desk, sending the smaller troll stumbling a little. "Go on, get. We're done here."

Gamzee catches himself and looks back at the troll behind the desk, and receives nothing but a glare and irate shooing motions, so he slips out the door they came in through and hurries back to the relative safety of the novitiate quarters.

 

The common block is more than half-empty when Gamzee returns; most of the others seem to have wandered off somewhere - to find their own blocks, he assumes, although he wouldn't be surprised if some had wandered further afield. The Highblood had basically dismissed them for the night, after all.

In any case, the living space - which had seemed rather uncomfortably crowded with seven subadult trolls and one uncommonly huge adult - now holds only two; Lazapi sits with her feet curled under her and a tablet of paper in her lap, while one of the others, a boy with triangular, backward-swept horns, facepaint, and an unusually bright symbol on his shirt, chatters away, sprawled on the other couch. Gamzee makes a token effort to listen to the other troll's babble and determines it to be the aural equivalent of flashing lights - entertaining under the right circumstances, but at the moment just drilling into his head and making it hurt worse.

At any rate, he doesn't have to listen long, because Lazapi looks up, spots Gamzee, and waves, her pen threaded through her splayed fingers. Gamzee raises a hand in reply. The guy on the couch does not appear to have noticed, and keeps talking; Lazapi shifts her grip on the pen and throws it, dart-like, at him. The boy sits up, clutching the base of his horn.

"Shit, you crazy bitch, whatthefuckwasthatfor?" he growls, talking so fast that the words slurring together as a thin rivulet of purplish-blue snakes down his temple. He keeps one hand clamped at the spot where his horn meets his skull, and picks up the pen in the other. "And _how_ the fuck? Did you just stab me in the head fromacrosstheroom? With _this_?"

Lazapi doesn't make any reply to the talkative troll; instead she looks back to Gamzee, who is now leaning one shoulder against the doorframe as if it's the only thing in the galaxy that's going to keep him upright. "What'd he want?" she asks.

Gamzee shrugs. "You know, I'm still not motherfucking certain?" he replies, and there's truth to it; Gamzee's definitely not going to make any solid guesses at what goes through the Grand Highblood's head, ever. His own head is strange enough territory. And what he is sure occurred in his Ancestor's adminisblock, he's not sure he should be discussing, not in mixed company. "Was hella weird, though."

The bright-blooded boy twists to hook an arm over the back of the couch and look in Gamzee's direction. He grins, and Gamzee gets the distinct impression that this boy has carefully designed his makeup to twist _any_ smile into a leer. "Can't bethatbad, you weren't gone long enough to fill a bucket," he says.

"Hey Rossan, can I have my pen back, Rossan?" Lazapi sweetly asks; the other troll looks a little confused but tosses the pen, now tipped with his blood, back to her. She catches it neatly and just as quickly throws it at him again. He swears again, feeling out the fresh nick in the tip of his ear, and glares at her.

"Don't be crude," she says primly, and Gamzee chuckles.

The boy - Rossan, apparently - glowers, glare flicking from one of them to the other. "What, Lazapi, yousayingthat if you found a wrigglerwithyourhorns you _wouldn't_ hitthat?" he asks, and Gamzee can't tell if he's being serious.

Lazapi raises both eyebrows until they almost disappear into her curly hair. "Can I have my pen back?" she asks.

"Fuckno."

Still glaring - and if he hadn't just been implying that Gamzee must be being pailed by his own Ancestor, the Capricorn would have been tempted to ask for some makeup tips, because Rossan's paint is amazingly expressive - the triangular-horned troll gets up and leaves, taking the pen with him.

Lazapi sighs, looking down at her paper. "Well, crap. I was almost finished, too. Coulda used some of that blue-violet, it was a neat color. You ever seen someone with blood that bright?"

Of course, Gamzee's mind goes straight to scarlet, carefully guarded brilliant red that's dangerously rare and not just unusual enough to be interesting, but he just shrugs. "Once or twice, maybe. Motherfucking miracle, ain't it? Even when they separate out us indigos we've got us a bitching little mini-rainbow."

She giggles. "You know, he was saying he couldn't even see the difference between my color and yours, did you know that?" she says. "I mean, what is he, colorblind? Can't see he'll last long, if he is."

Gamzee shrugs - he's not really sure _what_ to expect in terms of anyone's life expectancy, since his own got turned on its head. And speaking of heads... idly, he wonders if people with smaller horns have less intense headaches, because his own seem to be weighing him down something fierce. "I think I'm going to go find my block now, sister. Maybe catch a few zees before Carnival."

She nods. "You do look kind of out of it," Lazapi admits. "Wasn't going to say anything, but..."

"Fuck, no, I'm just a vague-looking motherfucker," replies Gamzee. "See you later, right?"

"Yeah. Oh, hey, you should fix your paint before you go to Carnival anyway," she adds. "It's kind of smeary."

"Yeah, thanks. You're a motherfucking lifesaver."

With that, he wanders off down the other hallway, which is short and poorly lit, and finds the door with his own looping sign painted on it next to another symbol, a cresent moon on a crossed line which Gamzee thinks he remembers might be called Lilit. Even if he's never much cared about blood color on anything other than an aesthetic basis, he kind of liked learning the symbols when he was little - although many of them he no longer remembers. Sopor is not kind to long term memory.

The door opens easily under his hand, and Gamzee steps inside. The block is small and simple; two recupracoons, two wardrobes, a desk and an outdated computer terminal. The computer's currently in use by the almost-aquatic girl, who looks up as he comes in and makes no effort to disguise her look of disappointment. "Oh, I thought maybe you weren't coming back," she says. "Your 'coon drained out a few minutes ago, I thought maybe that meant I was getting a single."

Gamzee tries not to let his own disappointment show; he'd kind of hoped he might be able to take a nap before the sopor restriction could be enforced. "Naw, chica, you're stuck with me," he says amiably, wrestling his tee-shirt off over his horns as he wanders over to see if he can figure out how to get the recupracoon to refill. Half-strength sopor slime, he figures, is still better than nothing.

The Lilit girl - he's almost certain her sign's Lilit - turns back to the computer. "For now, anyway," she says darkly.


	4. More to the Carnival

The slime is thin and does little to ease his physical aches, let alone calm his mind, but Gamzee is exhausted and he's still got enough of the more potent form of the drug in his veins that he slips off fairly quickly into fitful sleep.

He dreams of imps, and misty rainbows circling the moons, and the curve of Tavros's horns.

Gamzee wakes with a start more than once, and the third time he wakes he figures that probably some time has passed and pushes himself up, head and shoulders out of the dilute slime to look at the clock mounted high on one wall. It's barely a quarter of an hour before the Carnival service is due to begin, and Gamzee realizes he does not even know yet where the chapel is located. "Aw, motherfuck..." he sighs, reluctantly finding his footing and reaching for the strigil.

His blockmate looks up from the computer screen - she doesn't seem to have moved an inch in the past hour and a half - and just as quickly turns back to whatever she was doing, lilac staining her cheeks. "Would you put on some damned clothes?" she demands.

Gamzee shrugs as he scrapes the slime from his skin. "Didn't ask you to motherfucking look, sister," he replies mildly.

"Well next time, ask me _not_ to look, dimwit," the Lilit snaps, her eyes resolutely on the screen.

He decides that his own clothes are a little on the worn and stained side. The wardrobe, Gamzee finds, is filled with multiples of a simpler version of the Grand Highblood's ensemble - a subjugglator's uniform, he supposes. He pulls on a pair of spotted slacks not to different from his usual and a sleeveless shirt - plain black with his symbol, rather than the elaborate stripes worn by the elder Capricorn - and fastens the narrow ruff of a collar around his neck and pulls on a pair of bracers with hands that shake ever so slightly. Dipping two fingers into a can of white grease paint, he glances over at the girl. "Hey, could a guy get his computer-surfing on for a moment or two?"

She doesn't look up, although from what Gamzee can see of her face she now seems more annoyed than embarrassed. "Go self-fill a quadrant."

"That's a motherfucking no, right?" Gamzee's paint is simple; it's the work of moments to coat his face in white and it doesn't take much longer to fill in the darker shapes that outline his features.

"If that's how you insist on phrasing it, yeah. It's a 'motherfucking no'."

Well, maybe he can find the place without looking it up; there's bound to be others heading that way, right? Gamzee would rather not start off with an argument - or more of an argument - with his blockmate, so he leaves her to whatever it is that so effectively commands her attention and wanders out of their shared respiteblock.

In the hallway, he nearly runs into one of the others, a boy also in the new uniform, with the front of his shirt marked with the backward-pointing question mark of... ok Gamzee can't remember what that sign is called. Something long and complicated, he thinks. The other troll is just emerging a door that bears both his own sign and Lazapi's three-rayed circle. He looks up at Gamzee - up being the operative word; this troll is tiny, wiry, moves like the glint on the edge of a knife.

"Yeah, and I bet you're headed to the Carnival," he says, as if picking up an earlier conversation, although Gamzee cannot for the life of him think when such a conversation might have taken place.

Gamzee shrugs. "If I can motherfucking find it, bro," he replies.

"Lost, huh? Wouldn't have guessed _that_ in a million sweeps," the other troll says, giving Gamzee a look that couldn't be more blatantly appraising if he tried. Maybe he is trying. "Well come on, then, I was heading out myself."

"Whoa, you're Juggalo?" Gamzee asks, surprised; more than one of the other new subjugglators wear the paint, but this troll isn't one of them.

He grins, showing a lot of very even, very fine fangs. "More to the carnival than just clowns, dude."

Gamzee's not sure what he means by that and isn't quite able to get a straight answer out of his companion as they walk, although he does learn that the troll's name is Arsast Aporia - Gamzee knows he'll get that second name mixed up with "Ampora" at some point and hopes the other troll won't take offense, because there's something in the way Arsast moves that makes Gamzee less than eager to fight him over trivialities. That's about the only piece of useful information Gamzee gleans, though; his head still hurts, and he's in no mood to pick through Arsast's doubletalk and vaugeness so he just kind of lets it drift past.

The chapel is bigger and more crowded than Gamzee expected; not a three-ring cathedral or anything, but spacious under the tent-like ceiling and full of light and sound and color and energy. The ceremony is more complex and formal than the few Gamzee had occasion to attend back on Alternia, but similar enough in form that he's able to follow along, staying in the background to avoid getting in the way of anyone who actually knows what they're doing.

At one point, he notices the Grand Highblood watching him through the crowd. As Gamzee makes eye contact, the older troll gives him the slightest nod and turns his attention back to the proceedings.

As Gamzee all but stumbles back into his block at the end of the night, he's still not sure what to make of that nod. His blockmate's already in her recuperacoon, freeing up the computer for now, but Gamzee just wants sleep, himself. He strips down and slides deep into the too-thin slime, and mostly loses himself for a few hours.

Next he knows, someone is thumping on the outside of his recuperacoon. Gamzee almost doesn't understand what the sound is, because honestly, who could possibly be doing that? The only other hive Gamzee knows about for miles and miles is home to a little yellow-green kid who avoids him out of what appears to be sheer fear, and it's not as if the old goat is going to drag himself up the beach and somehow get inside the hive. Anyway, the thumping reverberates in Gamzee's bones and horns and the backs of his eyes, and he kind of suspects that there's no external sound after all, just the after-effects of whatever the fuck he did to himself the day before.

But then someone is shaking him by the shoulder, and he has to admit that yes, there is someone trying to wake him and it's not just that all the miracles have gotten his wires crossed, although again, he can't think who would be in a position to do so. Gamzee half-twists to look up, finds Lazapi peering in through the opening in the side of the recuperacoon, and immediately feels incredibly stupid for not remembering sooner. "Hey, sis, what's up?"

"You slept through breakfast," she informs him, pulling her hand back. Lazapi hesitates a little, looking for a moment at the slime that slides from her hand in mild confusion. "Is there something wrong with your recuperacoon?"

There's something wrong with his _life_ , but he'd rather not complain, so Gamzee shrugs. "Not that I motherfucking noticed," he replies, folding his forearms along the lip of the recuperacoon and resting his chin on his wrists..

"No, really, this really feels like there's something wrong with the mix," she insists, wiping her hand on her pants. "I can hardly feel the sopor at all. You should get that checked out. Also you should get up pretty soon, too; I think we're actually going to start training in a few minutes and if you hurry you'll have time to smack Sephar around a little for wanting to let you sleep until the Gee-Aich noticed you were missing."

"...who's Sephar?" The rest of Lazapi's rant does not seem to need much response, so he hones in on the unfamiliar name.

She gives him a look. "Your blockmate? The Lilit with the pretentious fins?"

"Oh."

Lazapi sighs. "Just hurry up, ok? I don't think we'd be able to stall for you if you're late."

She leaves, and Gamzee dresses quickly. He glances in the mirror set into the back of the wardrobe door and decides that all his paint needs is a touch up; it probably wasn't the best idea to sleep in it - repeatably - but that's blood out of the vein now and it's not like Gamzee's particularly worried about his complexion.

He reaches the common block to find it crowded once more; some of the others look up as he enters, expressions ranging from mild curiosity to irritation. His blockmate - Sephar, apparently - looks faintly put-out to see him up and around, and he favors her with a lopsided grin that can probably be interpreted as friendly, despite the fact that it shows a few more teeth than strictly necessary.

Gamzee's hands are shaking slightly, and he crosses them over his chest in an effort to chill them out, because while usually Gamzee is happy to let his hands do whatever the fuck they want, there are a couple of trolls in here who are watching him in a way that's just this side of predatory and Gamzee would really rather not give anyone an excuse to start shit.

Before long, an almost harried-looking troll - adult and in what Gamzee guesses is a full-fledged subjugglator's uniform - enters from the direction of the subjugglators' wing, gripping a thin sheath of papers in one hand. She consults the top sheet breifly, and starts rattling off signs. "Ok. Phosphor, Triskele, Lilit, Kometes, with me. Percontativus, Labrys, report to block five-three-zee," she says. "Capricorn, the Grand Highblood wants to see you in his adminisblock."

A brief burst of subdued excitement follows the announcement; it seems for a moment that Gamzee is the only one not totally blown away by his being called before the Highblood once again. Not that he could exactly say that he was expecting it - he hadn't been - but it didn't come as such a surprise. But then, Gamzee kind of gave up on being surprised by shit about the time the indigo spirographs formed above his hive, and never really took up the habit again, even after they did whatever it was they did to restore Alternia - he's still not clear on what exactly happened.

The adult smacks the nearest of the novitiates - which happens to be Rossan - upside the head, and silence seems to radiate from that point. "Second-guessing the Grand Highblood is really not a habit you want to be getting inta," she growls. "Not unless you want to end up entertainment for the rest of us. Come on, twerps, move out."

The larger group happens to be moving in the same direction anyway, so Gamzee kind of falls in with them. As they pass the appropriate door, he peels off and hesitates for a moment; Lazapi glances back at him nervously and then hurries to keep up with Rossan, Sephar, and a troll with corkscrew horns whose name Gamzee has not yet caught.

He waits until the group has disappeared around a corner before knocking on the door.

At least, knocking on the door is his intention; his hand is raised to do so when the door opens so quickly that Gamzee's left standing with his curled fist in the air like an idiot as his Ancestor glares down at him. And although in Gamzee's admittedly limited experience, the Grand Highblood's moods are volatile and intense as a rule, he thinks that the older troll looks more than just annoyed or irritated. He looks _furious_ and _exhilarated_ ; he fairly thrums with a kind of manic exasperation.

Well, for a brief moment he looks surprised, looking down at Gamzee, but then he regains his composure and the outrage is back. "Come on, boy, CHANGE OF FUCKING PLANS," he snaps, pushing past Gamzee with enough force to throw him off balance, and then throwing the younger troll off balance _again_ as he grabs at a horn as he goes past. "We'll have to figure out just how useless you are later, because SOME BITCH IN THE THRESHECUTIONER CANTINA just decided to START A MOTHERFUCKING RIOT. Let's go knock some fucking heads together."

Gamzee somehow regains his balance - eventually, he thinks, he's going to just go over and not pop back up, and he's not looking forward to the Grand Highblood's reaction when that happens. His horn is beginning to ache, and he hurries to keep up so as to put the least stress on the horn-bed, although he's not sure how much it helps. Last night's blinding migraine has faded into a low-grade ache that permeates every point from the spot between his shoulderblades to the cores of his horns, and the Grand Highblood's voice still does odd things to Gamzee's head, especially when he shouts.

Maybe, he thinks, he ought to learn to duck when his Ancestor grabs for him. He doesn't relish the thought of spending the next however many perigrees - or sweeps, even - being dragged around by one horn.

Privately he resolves that if by some miracle he ever sees his matesprite again, he will stop using Tavros's horns as an armrest, even if they are at just about the perfect height for it.

By the time they actually make it there, any kind of organization has gone out of the mob in the cantina. The violence is alive and well, but if there was ever any order to it, it is now nothing but chaos. The Grand Highblood releases his grip on Gamzee and surveys the scene with a broad smile on his face. "I was FUCKING HOPING this place would go up soon," he says - Gamzee's not sure who, if anyone, the older troll is addressing. Other official-looking trolls are beginning to arrive at various entrances - a couple of other subjugglators, a handful from some rank that Gamzee does not yet know by sight.

The Grand Highblood draws himself up to his full height. "EVERYONE SIT THE FUCK DOWN AND SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he bellows. The majority of the trolls - mostly those standing nearest to the huge subjugglator or near an exit, actually do listen, do make an effort to break off the fighting and get out of the way. Many of the combatants, however, seem to take relatively little notice.

A huge, spiked club appears in the Grand Highblood's hand, withdrawn seamlessly from a strife specibus, and he grins at Gamzee. "Motherfuckers got a fair warning, more than they deserved," he says, the fanged-skull pattern of his makeup and the far-too-wide smile forming a double row of jagged edges. "Let's have some _fun_."

Fun, apparently, here means wading into the fray and laying about himself with abandon; the trolls who Gamzee is inclined to think of as reinforcements do likewise, and somehow just by the motion of the crowd Gamzee finds himself drawn in as well. He fumbles with his own specibus and finds the smooth handles of the deuce clubs in his hands; not the most effective weapon, but familiar. And less likely to result in extreme overkill than some weapons, as well.

Besides the milling, mostly peaceful crowds at conscription, this is easily the largest concentration of trolls Gamzee has ever seen, and that fact alone nearly overwhelms him. The mob is mostly blue with a smattering of greens and purples; the threshecutioners are not as exclusive as some forces but by no means egalitarian. The only trolls Gamzee can see who are lower than green are no longer moving - taken as easy targets in the first minutes of the riot, more than likely - and his guts knot up suddenly at the realization that not so long ago, _this_ was where Karkat had _wanted_ to end up.

The thought distracts him for only a moment, but it's long enough for someone else to be thrown bodily into him; Gamzee stumbles, reels, lashes out with a snarl. The press of the crowd brings him to the edge of the room, and Gamzee manages by some small miracle to put a wall at his back.

When the fighting finally dies down, Gamzee's clubs are streaked with traces of a dozen shades of blue - traces only, he notes with a little satisfaction - and his facepaint is ruined by a wash of indigo flowing from a cut that runs from his eyebrow to his horn, and his shirt marred by a cut that crosses his ribs.

He wants to either collapse or fight something else. Then the Grand Highblood finishes with his final victim and looks across the room at him, and as the two Capricorns meet each other's eyes - no scratch that, Gamzee just wants to collapse and that's really all there is to say on the matter. He moves one of the clubs from hand to hand so that he's holding both weapons in a single, long-fingered grip, and presses his now-free hand flat against the wall at his back as if that'll keep him upright.

The Grand Highblood seems to stare at him for a long moment, and Gamzee shrinks under the gaze, until he realizes that his Ancestor is not so much looking at him as at the blank wall at his back. The older troll nods curtly, once, as if deciding something.

"Hey," one of the other Subjugglators calls from the other end of the room. "Your Levity, you might want to hear this."


	5. This is Where He Stood

The Grand Highblood begins to wade through the scattered forms that dot the floor, dead and dying, unconscious and, Gamzee's sure in at least a couple of cases, faking one of the above. He pauses, looks back at Gamzee with an irritated expression, and beckons with one gore-streaked claw. Gamzee takes a deep breath, trying to will steadiness into knees that seems suddenly to be made of rubber, and starts to pick his way across the battlefield.

The other subjugglator, the one Gamzee does not recognize, has a blue-blood by the arm, a troll bleeding from a number of superficial wounds but not actually very badly injured. He looks a little older than Gamzee, but not by more than a few sweeps. "Y-your Levity, I saw her," he begins to babble, as the Highblood approaches. "The girl who started it. I saw who it was."

"...AND?" the Grand Highblood prompts, and even standing behind him and a little to one side, Gamzee flinches.

"One've the new ones! 'bout his age," the blue-blood says, pointing at Gamzee.. "I didn't recognize her sign. Long hair. Glasses. And, um..."

He trails off, and the Grand Highblood motions impatiently for him to continue.

"And wings."

There aren't many trolls who fit that description. Gamzee's not sure if the tightness in his throat is hope or fear or just nerves from the recent fight.

"Wings." The Highblood's voice is low and heavy, the way it always is before it slips out and becomes an excited or angry shout. "Our ringleader has WINGS? THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN, SHE HAS WINGS?"

"She did! Butterfly-ish things!" the hapless blue-blood insists.

The Grand Highblood turns away, lands a savage kick in the side of one of the prone forms that litter the floor - Gamzee sincerely hopes that that particular troll was already dead. Frustration for the moment expressed, he turns back to the other subjugglator. "Why in the name of Gl'bgolyb's smallest tentacle was I not informed that there was a TROLL FROM A WINGED LINEAGE in this sweep's batch?"

The other troll looks a little alarmed, but doesn't cower from his commander; Gamzee wonders just how long it takes to develop that kind of nerve. "They're still registering the lowbloods, sir," he points out.

"THIS WASN'T A FUCKING PEASANT, THIS WAS A THRESHECUTIONER CADET!" He pauses, then nods brusquely in the direction of the injured blue-blood. "Take him to the mentassailants. Maybe they'll be able to piece together a slightly more useful description."

The other subjugglator nods, and drags the captive away.

Gamzee realizes suddenly that he's still holding his clubs and stows them in the appropriate cards. His Ancestor stoops and picks up a corpse, his fist bunching in the sign on the front of the bloodstained shirt. The Grand Highblood prods at the massive head wound that doubtless finished off this particular troll, and examines the cobalt blood that coats his fingers. "See if you can find anything in an olive or yellow, boy," he instructs, and Gamzee nods, although the Grand Highblood has his back to him.

It takes a few moments for Gamzee to sort out the scene enough to even begin looking for the color requested, because as soon as he turns his mind to looking for a specific body, he becomes incredibly aware that he is _surrounded_ by bodies. His skin crawls, and he has the sudden, irrational desire to not turn his back on any of them - impossible, of course, short of putting his back to a wall again, which would not be conducive to following his Ancestor's demand. He turns slowly, wiping his own indigo blood from his eye; his hand comes away stained periwinkle by a mixture of blood and grease paint.

There - not far away, a splash of dark gold-green. Gamzee makes his way over to the body and, unsure what to do next, sinks to one knee next to it. Drag the dead troll over to where the Grand Highblood is now starting to coat the wall in an even wash of blue? Simply speak up and say that he's found what he was looking for? He reaches down hesitantly to try and lift the olive-blood. She is small - near his age, he thinks, and not yet full grown - and her torso is pulverized into a shape that Gamzee is fairly sure a girl's chest should not be. Her horns are badly chipped. And she is -

\- not quite dead.

Hazy eyes fly open at Gamzee's touch, and she gasps, or tries to, a wet, thickly rattling sound. She tries to pull away from him and collapses again from what appears to be a combination of slippery blood under her and sheer physical weakness. Gamzee has not yet found the presence of mind to pull back when she suddenly coughs - or perhaps hiccups is more accurate - a gout of yellow-green that weakly spatters both of them. Then her eyes roll back in her head as Gamzee drops her, shock finally overtaking startlement and freeing his motions. Her horns clatter against the floor.

Gamzee turns away quickly, nearly doubled over where he kneels on the floor, and dry-heaves until his body finally gets the message that he's skipped more meals than he's eaten lately, including breakfast this evening, and therefore there's nothing to purge.

When he looks up, the Grand Highblood is staring at him. "Thought I told you to FIND a yellow," the adult snaps. "Not FUCKING WEAR one."

Gamzee makes a feeble attempt at a rueful smile. "She wasn't quite as motherfucking corpsy as I thought she was," he explains.

The older troll rolls his eyes. "JUST GET IT OVER HERE."

Although Gamzee is hesitant to take hold of the yellow-blood again, cautious prodding indicates that she's probably actually dead this time. Wincing and trying not to look at the body, he hooks his arms under hers and hauls her over to where the Grand Highblood is working.

A handful of other corpses are laid out at the base of the wall, three shades of blue, a purple and a green, split open from throat to belly and arranged in a macabre pallet. Gamzee stares at them for a long moment, the yellow body heavy in his arms and the cloying smell of blood heavy in his nostrils. His ancestor stoops to dip a scrap of fabric into the chest cavity of one of the blues, and gestures at the end of the line of bodies. "Put it down there," he says. "Then go see if you can find anything else interesting."

Gamzee is fairly certain that "interesting" is not the right word for anything in this block, but he turns away and starts going over the room again, not so much hoping to find anything as he is hoping _not_ to find something. A little more searching convinces him that no one he knows is among the dead; there is no sign of Vriska - if the winged instigator is indeed Vriska - and no sign of any of his other friends, either. He breaths a little easier, and regrets it, as the air is still thick with the smell of more blood than he's encountered in...

More blood than he wants to think about.

Eventually he decides that a blue-blood so dark a navy as to be almost black probably counts as interesting, and after cautiously confirming that yes, this one is actually already dead, Gamzee again drags the body across the block. The Grand Highblood nods in distracted approval, and continues working on the mural. Gamzee waits a moment, and decides he's being ignored and therefore has no need to pretend that he wants to be standing under his own power. He finds a relatively clean bit of floor and sits down.

At first the painting seems entirely abstract, blobs and whorls of color, but the longer Gamzee watches his Ancestor work, the more forms he can begin to pick out. Trollish figures, waves and clouds and constellations. And, of course, circus tents and rings and hints of grinning clown faces. The Grand Highblood's movements are careful and precise, almost elegant, as he paints, and Gamzee realizes after a moment that the fluid precision is exactly the same as that the Highblood displayed while fighting.

After what seems like quite a long time - Gamzee can spot no timepiece from where he sits, and has never exactly had the best sense of the passage of time, so it may not be all that long but it certainly _feels_ like it - one of the subordinate subjugglators enters, stands to attention until the Grand Highblood looks up and nods tersely at her.

"Your Levity, an unsecured gunship was just stolen from one of the docking bays," she says, quickly and almost in a monotone.

The Grand Highblood turns, one hand still on the wall, smearing a large hand print in the wet painting. "WHAT?"

"Witnesses described the hijacker as young, female, and winged," she continues, as if trying to get all the pertinent details out as fast as possible. "She changed the call sign broadcast briefly to an archaic piratical signal, then shut it off entirely."

Gamzee studies the floor between his feet, propping his face in one hand so as to hide a broad grin. Good on her - although he wouldn't have ever expected he'd feel so jealous of Vriska Serket.

The Grand Highblood takes just a moment to fix the smear in the middle of his mural and then stalks off, slamming the door open in front of him, and then slamming it closed behind him. The other subjugglator leaves close on his heels, and Gamzee is alone in the block full of dead and dying trolls with no idea what to do with himself.

He looks for a moment at the freshly-painted wall. It is still a thing of beauty - terrible beauty, with the bodies of those whose blood went for paint still lying around - but somehow it seems almost as if a bit of the miraculous has gone out of it now that it has been abandoned by its creator. He pours over it nonetheless, as if the colorful, surreal shapes will give him some insight into his Ancestor. Of course, if there is any symbolism beyond the obvious in the stars and ships and grimacing faces, Gamzee cannot recognize it.

Nor is he sure what to make of it when he finds, carefully surrounded by blue but otherwise untouched, a hand-shaped smear of indigo. Gamzee lifts his own hand, turning it to match the fingers-down orientation of the mark but not quite touching the wall; it's a match in size and shape, and looking down, he sees a couple of dry drops of indigo dotting the floor. This is where he stood. That is _his_ hand print, incorporated into the Grand Highblood's work.

Gamzee only barely resists the urge to prod at his own wounds until the blood flows again and use it to trace a tiny "honk" across the palm of the hand print. He has not painted walls in sweeps, but that's not what stops him, not really. There's something that strikes him as almost obscene about adding his own blocky writing to this miracle, so he lets it be.

He wonders what he's supposed to do now. Wait? Follow? But if the Grand Highblood had wished for Gamzee's continued presence, he no doubt would have made a point of dragging Gamzee along. And before long, surely someone would be sent to clean up the mess - Gamzee did not particularly want to be here when they arrived.

His head and shoulders and back all hurt in a way that he's not entirely sure he can put down to the fight, and colors are beginning to be too sharp before his eyes. He's ravenous, even as the bile rises in his throat at the thought of food.

Gamzee figures that if he's going to be miserable, he might as well be miserable in the relative safety and familiarity of his own quarters. Somehow, he makes it back to the novitiate quarters with a minimum of stumbling into walls. He passes through the common block, where a couple of the others abruptly stop their conversation to watch him; Gamzee raises a hand in a vague wave but doesn't stick around.

The hygieneblock at the end of the hallway boasts a row of shower stalls, and although Gamzee would really have preferred a soak, this will do as well. He grabs a towel from a rack near the door and heads for the first shower.

When he emerges, wrapping the towel around his waist, Arsast Aporia is leaning against the wall directly across the block, arms crossed over his narrow chest.

"Don't feel like you need to explain or anything," the wiry troll says flippantly.

Gamzee stares at him in confusion for a moment.

Apparently sensing that no reply is forthcoming, Arsast continues. "I mean, it's _totally normal_ to get singled out and separated from the group the very first night, and come back covered in blood, some of which is very clearly not yours. That's not going to pique our curiosity at _all_."

Gamzee tries to ignore the other troll, walking past him to lean over one of the basins and examine the cut on his forehead in the mirror. The injury had stung badly when struck with hot water - or perhaps it had been the facepaint being washed into the wound, but he thinks it looks ok now. Not too deep, and it will probably be mostly hidden behind his hair if it scars anyway. Not like the three lines that cross his face, slightly purple without the usual concealing layer of white paint.

"Seriously, though, I'm just thinking of the girls. Flighty broads are going to drive themselves distracted over it," Arsast drawls. Gamzee looks askance at him.

"That's a load of motherfucking hoofbeastshit and I reckon you know it," he says. "Lazapi will ask me if she cares, and Sephar's probably just thinking up new ways to keep me out of our block. And... shit, bro, I don't even know the third girl's name yet, I don't imagine she's wasting much thinkpan space on me."

Arsast shrugs, turning to continue watching Gamzee. "Just because you don't give a shit about the rest of us doesn't mean we aren't curious about you," he points out, and Gamzee forgets that he was pointedly not looking at the other boy, surprise twisting his eyebrows up in a way that sends a streak of pain through the cut on his face.

"Who's saying I don't give a shit about you motherfuckers?" he asks.

"Who's saying you do? You've done nothing but avoid us since we arrived," Arsast replies with a dry laugh. "Look, I'm not saying you've gotta be the life of the party, but word to the wise - being the Grand Highblood's lap-woofbeast is only going to take you so far."

Arsast turns to go, and hesitates for a moment in the doorway. "You know, you really shouldn't paint over those scars so heavily," he adds. "They're kind of badass."

Gamzee stares at the door for a long moment after the other boy leaves, bony fingers tracing the marks that split one eyebrow and lightly notch the bridge of his nose.


	6. Something More than a Scream

When he reaches his block, a bundle of bloody clothes held under one arm, Gamzee finds the door won't open.

He frowns at it. He jiggles the handle a little; it turns easily, but the door remains stubbornly closed. Gamzee shoves against the door with his shoulder, awkwardly holding the towel in place with one hand; he feels the door budge just a little, and also feels that maybe breaking down doors is not the best idea when one can already hardly lift one's arms.

Well, either the door has magically affixed itself to the frame, or something's blocking it from inside. And though Gamzee isn't willing to rule out a mystical explanation - he's seen weirder shit than this in his life, and believed weirder still - it seems that if something's blocking it from inside, that means some _one_ is blocking it from inside, and that's probably easier to deal with without breaking out the special stardust.

He raps on the door with his knuckles, feeling that he is not _nearly_ high enough to be standing in the hallway knocking on the door of his own block, wearing nothing but a towel. Gamzee would kind of like to say that he has never been high enough for this, but it's distinctly reminding him of the time he locked himself out of his hive with nothing but his husktop and his shoes, and had to wait until Kanaya could talk Eridan into coming and helping him break in because it was getting toward morning and no one else had any way of getting there before sunrise. It wasn't his finest moment - even then, through the haze of sopor, he'd realized it. This was marginally less mortifying, but only marginally.

"Sephar? Are you in there, chica?" he calls through the door, resting his forehead against the smooth, flat surface.

"No," comes the curt response. Gamzee waits a moment to see if anything will happen. It doesn't.

"Motherfucking laugh riot, Sephar," he sighs. "Come on, just let me come in and get dressed real quick, I'm not trying to get my bother on or anything..."

There's a moment of silence, followed by an incredulous, "Get dressed? Have you taken to wandering around naked now?" Her voice is light, laced with amusement.

"Yeah, sure, whatever you want to be thinking," he replies, trying to keep his voice level. He can feel frustration building, welling up from places he's accustomed to drowning in sopor. "I'm standing out here in a towel."

"What was that? I couldn't quite hear you," she calls back. The bitch is smiling, he can hear it. Can hear the near-laughter in her voice.

"I really would like to not be motherfucking standing around in a towel, let me in," he repeats, a little more insistantly.

"Still not getting it," she replies. "You'll have to speak up, Makara."

"I said, I'M STANDING IN THE MOTHERFUCKING HALLWAY IN A MOTHERFUCKING TOWEL, BITCH!" Gamzee screams, and a tiny corner of his mind is saying fuck, fuck, no, he needs his moirail, needs Karkat to hold him back and yell at the universe so he doesn't have to. "OPEN THE MOTHERFUCKING DOOR!" His voice breaks into something more than a scream; he can feel rather than hear the difference, an almost electric sensation through the roots of his teeth and the cores of his horns.

He is _definitely_ not high enough to deal with this shit. He's not sure he can really count himself as high at all, at this point. Lady Sopor has left the building.

The door next to his own opens and one of the other novitiates looks out a little hesitantly, the girl Gamzee has not yet been introduced to - the one in simple facepaint with the flattened, ax-like horns. Gamzee snarls at her wordlessly; the other troll bares her own teeth in reply and retreats into her block. From the common block at the end of the hall comes Arsast's shout of "Just let him in, Sephar!"

"Fine," she grumbles from the other side of the door, and Gamzee can hear something large and heavy being dragged across the floor. A moment later, she says, "Ok, fine, come in if you're going to," sounding a little sullen.

The door now opens easily under his hand, and it looks like Sephar's wardrobe has been moved - he hadn't even been aware that particular piece of furniture _wasn't_ bolted to the wall or the floor or something. Sephar herself stands on the other side of the room, almost wedged in beside her recuperacoon, watching him warily.

Gamzee glares at her, and crosses to his own wardrobe to dress so quickly that he might as well be fighting with his clothes. He captchalogues his tins of grease paint and storms out of the respiteblock again without looking back.

He's not sure, but he thinks he might have heard a sigh of relief behind him.

 

Gamzee can hear multiple voices coming from the common block, and while Arsast's words about avoiding the group still lay heavy on his mind, he can't help feeling that this is not the best time to socialize - not with his hands suddenly shaking like leaves and his head aching. He hasn't had a chance to apply his face yet, either, and somehow being dressed but not painted makes him feel nearly as naked as going around towel-clad.

Going back to his block is not an option, he thinks - Sephar has probably moved both wardrobes in front of the door by now - but the hygieneblock is a public space that will probably not be too crowded, and has mirrors, besides. He heads back into the starkly tiled space, dropping the damp, slightly bloody towel into the hamper by the door and then sitting down with his back against the cool wall.

He's watching his modus with half-lidded eyes, waiting for the paint to come into reach, when Lazapi comes in. She hesitates in the door, one hand on the frame as if to resist being dragged into the block or something. "Hey, er..." she begins, and trails off, as if not sure where she's going with this.

He looks up slowly, but doesn't reply.

Lazapi seems to hunt around for a safe topic, and nods toward the flashing cards, the colors reflecting off her glasses. "Nice modus," she comments, a little lamely, but Gamzee thinks it's better than awkward silence. Normally, he can carry on a conversation all day without much input from the other person, but it's not coming along right now.

"Thanks," he mutters, looking back at it and almost missing the can of white paint. Just before it flickers out of sight again, he snags it, and tries and fails and finally succeeds at getting it open with hands that will not just chill and do what he tells them. "I like it. 'S a Miracle Modus."

She makes an amused little snort, and he shrugs.

"Ok, maybe that ain't the name it came with," he admits. "But I decided it was a motherfucking miracle when I was a kid, and I've gone and gotten forgetful over what it's really called." He begins to smear on the white paint, carefully avoiding the fresh cut on his forehead because just getting near to it hurts like hell and also because Karkat always claimed that the reason his other scars are so visible is because he got paint in them while they were still healing. The silence stretches, growing uncomfortable again.

Lazapi finally screws up her nerve. "That, a little while ago... that sounded bad, when you were yelling at Sephar a while ago. Felt bad," she says.

He shrugs, suspecting he knows what she's getting at and not wanting to deal with it right now.

"Rossan actually shut up for like a minute and a half," she adds.

Gamzee traces the boundary of white along his jaw, as steadily as he can manage.

Lazapi sighs, sounding frustrated. "Look, is there anything I can do to help?" she asks.

It's probably some kind of miracle that his mind is moving at something like half-speed right now, because there are so many things he could say to that and most of them are dangerous or wildly inappropriate. Even his actual answer is perhaps not the best considered. "Not unless you've got my moirail hidden away somewhere, and I think I'd have motherfucking noticed if someone tried to stash him all up in their block."

She looks almost relieved. "You've got a moirail? Can we get a hold of him?" she asks.

Gamzee considers for a moment, and feels a little guilty for even thinking about it. "Nah, sis, he -" and again, what can he say - He's a draft dodger? He's a mutant so bright he fell out of the hemospectrum entirely? He's an enthusiastic revolutionary and a grudging religious icon? He's probably sitting in a cave about now, bitching at Nepeta about _how can she live like this_ while Sollux snickers? Gamzee shakes his head, staring into the pot of greasepaint in his hands. "He ain't onboard."

"You're sure?"

"'Course I'm motherfucking sure." The dark paint is easier to catch as it goes through the cards, or perhaps it's just that he's paying more attention to his deck now rather than looking at her. "I am motherfucking falling a-motherfucking-part, I think if there was any chance I could be getting my jam on with my palemate I'd be all up in that shit."

He stands, moving over to where he can stand properly in front of a mirror and starts adding the dark shapes around his eyes and mouth. His first application is more angular and jagged than usual, and he frowns at his reflection and smooths the lines, enlarges the shapes.

"Anyway." Lazapi tries again after a moment. "I came to tell you they're setting out food, is part of why I came in here in the first place. You know, since you missed breakfast and all."

Gamzee looks over at her with a shakey smile. But it doesn't need to be so firm, now, because his paint can smile even if he has trouble. "Well, shit, sis, why didn't you say so?"

She shrugs. "Dunno."

He wipes the excess paint from his fingers. "Come on, let's get our move on," he says. "I am motherfucking starved."

Lazapi smiles, and most of the trepidation is gone from her eyes, but she still ducks out of the way when he moves to rest a companionable arm on her shoulder. He lets it go.


	7. Might Just Survive

Rossan grins as the two of them return to the common block, a smile which is, as far as Gamzee can tell, genuine. "I was wondering if you guys were going to upandgetinhere before Staiko ate everything," he comments, as Lazapi heads to the sideboard that's set out along one wall and begins loading a tray.

A huge young troll - nearly as tall as Gamzee, and bulky in a good many ways Gamzee isn't, with low-set spiraling horns that make him look even bigger - looks up from where he sits on one of the couches, feet resting on the caffeinated-refreshment table and a plate in his lap. "Fuck you, Rossan."

"Spadeyoutoo," Rossan replies lightly.

"Fuck you _platonically_."

Rossan laughs, and Gamzee smiles as well as he goes to get some food for himself. The spread is simple, but there's a lot of it and it looks like it's probably a lot better in quality than the kind of frozen, individually packaged stuff that Gamzee has mostly lived off of for most of his life. Well, lived off of when he isn't baking for himself, but since the first thing in the oven has always tended to be sopor, it's generally pretty rare that he has made anything with real nutritional value.

Maybe at some point now he'll get a chance to practice some more, learn to cook a few more things that aren't mind-altering.

Now that he doesn't really have an excuse, or the ability, to wander over to a friend or a quadrant's hive and hang around being friendly and pitiful until they feed him.

He quickly fills a plate with slices of what appears to be some kind of roasted fowlbeast, and a small pile of steamed grains, and returns to sit at the very end of the couch not occupied by Staiko.

"Hey, so don't leave us hanging," says a voice, sharp but not unkind, at his ear, and Gamzee jumps as if someone stepped on a bicycle horn. He looks up to find Arsast leaning against the back of the sofa, wrists casually crossed in front of him. The other troll raises an eyebrow, and Gamzee wonders uncomfortably how much the others are aware of their last talk.

"Can I feed my motherfucking face a little first, bro?" Gamzee asks. "Give a brother a moment."

And Gamzee is a little surprised at how much he does tell - it's an abbreviated and rather vague account of his night, true. But after a slightly hesitant start - he hears a hitch in his own voice that reminds him sharply of Tavros, and that nearly shuts him down completely - he's amazed at how smoothly the words flow. And he's amazed, too, how easy it is not to mention how _sickeningly terrified_ he was for most of the evening. How easy it is to feign the casual camaraderie shared by the other novitiates.

Or maybe it's how easy it is to share the casual camaraderie feigned by the other novitiates.

He doesn't mention anything after returning to this portion of the ship; he figures they heard most of that for themselves.

When he finishes, the group comes to more or less a general consensus on two things - one, Gamzee's night was a good deal more interesting than their own evening's painful, monotonous training, and two, Lazapi is _way_ too excited over the idea of watching the Grand Highblood paint.

Lazapi pouts, and Gamzee flicks a bit of food at her, and pretty soon the block is full of slightly hysterical laughter and pieces of vegetables, and Arsast is dashing out with his arms curled over his head, snapping, "Fucking mirth, guys, if this is _grubsauce_ in my _hair_ I will not be responsible for the horrible fates any of you will suffer. Except I totally will be. Shut up, Rossan."

"He didn't say anything!" Lydain, the ax-horned girl, laughs.

Arsast cautiously pokes his head back in through the door, and ducks as a crumpled napkin flies past. "He was going to."

 

By the time Arsast braves the common block again, the food fight has died down with relatively little in the way of casualties. "Hey, I was kind of wondering if any of you - excuse me, I really can't think of a better word - _clowns_ in facepaint were actually planning on going to Carnival tonight?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow. "Because we should get going pretty soon, and I'd kind of like to know who I'm ratting out if I get cornered and asked where you three are."

Gamzee and Lydain exchange a slightly guilty look; Gamzee hadn't even been thinking about it, and it's just a little bit of a comfort to know he wasn't the only one who'd let it slip his mind. Rossan is grinning as he half-heartedly kicks something that probably started out as food under the table. "Yeahyeah, coming," he says.

Arsast rolls his eyes. "You're disgusting," he says, and leaves again. Rossan follows.

"Are we _required_ to go?" Lydain asks after a moment, brushing crumbs from her pants. "I mean, half the group isn't even circus folk, is it really a requirement that we go every night?"

Gamzee shrugs. "You're asking the motherfucker who's spent most of the last couple of days asleep," he reminds her.

She sighs. "Guess if the Gee-Aich made a point of telling us when it is, we're probably at least expected," she decides.

"Yeah, probably," he agrees.

"Guys," Lazapi puts in, "I feel like I should point out that while you're having this deep, philosophical discussion, the other two have left without you."

Both Juggalos give a little start, glancing at her, and then Lydain all but storms sheepishly from the block. Gamzee offers an apologetic smile in Lazapi's direction, and follows.

 

When they return later, near morning, the door of Gamzee's block is standing slightly open; Sephar is nowhere to be found, except by the sound of one of the showers running at the end of the hall. Gamzee wonders if she ever ate, and then wonders why he cares.

He takes advantage of her absence to use the computer, pulling up an actual schedule to look at for the first time. It doesn't tell him much that he isn't already figuring out on his own. Gamzee surfs the ship's intraweb for a few minutes, but he's having trouble concentrating and doesn't have anything else in particular he wants to look at anyway. He glances briefly at the chat client at one corner of the screen, which Sephar appears to have left logged on, but he can't think now of who he'd want to talk to that might possibly be on the network. Messing with Sephar's account sounds singularly unappealing, and also kind of stupid.

His blockmate's not back by the time he decides that making his eyes focus on anything is a lost cause. He makes a point of leaving the door ajar, as he found it, before climbing into his recuperacoon.

 

It surprises him, more than a little, when he falls into a routine over the next few nights - some evenings he's dragged along to something baffling and a little frightening by the Grand Highblood and some evenings he joins the others in drilling and studying, but otherwise the nights go pretty much the same. He tries to avoid Sephar; the others seem to remain friendly, for varying values of friendly. He walks to Carnival each morning with the other clowns - and Arsast, who he has tentatively pegged as an acrobat but isn't sure he wants to ask - talking and laughing and somehow not learning a goddamed thing about each other.

And each evening, his head and eyes and limbs ache a little less, and he focuses a little more, and he has to fight back the urge to snap at people a little more as his head clears.

Gamzee Makara begins to realize that he might just survive, after all.


	8. Not So Bad

Several of the subjugglator novitiates are wandering back from a schoolfeeding session - something called Classical Quarrelkenning which Rossan swears is intended solely to weed out the inattentive from their numbers, and Gamzee is inclined to agree, because for what other reason would what is basically a class on rap battles be so mind-numbingly dry? - when Lazapi suddenly splits off from the group in the middle of the corridor and chases down a passing green-blood. As the others go on ahead, Gamzee pauses to wait for her, figuring she's just after the troll's color. He's seen her do this before, waylay a lower-blooded troll whose hue catches her eye and then flatter and browbeat and bully them into letting her open a vein and take a vial of their blood, the color of which generally ends up in her drawings over the next few days.

Gamzee's never seen anyone outright refuse Lazapi's request. That he's seen, most of her targets seem relieved and a little disbelieving that they were singled out by an indigo and escaped with only minor injuries.

He knows the feeling.

This time, though, the green - a short young man with horns that sweep downward toward the nape of his neck - recovers quickly from his initial reaction of surprise, and seems glad to see her. He follows as she comes back to where Gamzee waits. Lazapi is grinning; the newcomer looks up at Gamzee appraisingly.

"You're hanging with sssircusss folk now, 'Sssapi?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow. Gamzee reflects that if you combined this troll and Sollux, you'd come up with one troll that could speak normally, and smiles at the thought. Perhaps he smiles a little too broadly at the thought, because he shows a few teeth and the other troll averts his nearly-saturated eyes.

Lazapi rolls her eyes. "Now I'm a _subjugglator_ now, Jormun," she says with a sigh. "Of course there are going to be circus cultists around. And Gamzee's not so bad."

Gamzee grins at Lazapi. "Shit, sis, that could almost be a motherfucking complement if you all tried a little harder," he says.

"Don't let it go to your head," she sighs, with a smile of her own. "This is Jormun; I knew him back on Alternia when we were kids. Jormun, meet Gamzee Makara. He's," and she looks impishly at Gamzee as she repeats, " _not so bad_."

Gamzee offers a handshake, his knuckles still a little swollen from sparring with Staiko earlier in the night. "Motherfucking fine pleasure to meet you, my brother."

The other troll hesitates only a brief moment before taking Gamzee's hand; his grip is smooth and firm and, of course, a bit warmer than Gamzee's own. "Pleassse, that mode of adressss isssn't needed," he says, cool but polite. "I mean no offenssse, but I am not one of your bretheren."

It takes a moment for Gamzee to understand what Jormun is getting at, and then he laughs. "Right, right, my man," he chuckles. "We ain't got so many empty seats in the stands that I all motherfucking need to drag in motherfucking spectators, I figure."

Jormun looks a little relieved and a little awkward, and fidgets with the cuffs of his high-collared coat. "Well, I shouldn't keep you," he says. "It wasss nissse to sssee you again, 'Sssapi."

"We're in no hurry," Lazapi objects. "Do you need to get anywhere? If you've got some time, you should come with us, if you don't need to go anywhere else right now. I want to hear all about what you've been up to for the past sweep!"

Gamzee's not altogether certain that's wise, and it appears that Jormun shares the thought, because he hesitates for a long moment before shrugging. "I sssupossse I could ssspare a little while," he finally says.

Lazapi practically squeaks in delight, and steers Jormun along with them, asking questions as she walks. Gamzee falls in half a step behind the two, comfortable not intruding; he almost thinks he should be slightly out of focus. With Gamzee out of his direct line of sight, Jormun seems to relax a little, although he does glance back at the taller troll from time to time.

As they walk back to the indigos' quarters, they learn that Jormun is now a practicing, if low-ranking, mediliquidator - a position that's a little _scientific_ for Gamzee's tastes, but to each their own; that he's got a promising new pale fling going - Lazapi's shoulders droop momentarily at hearing this, but she doesn't say anything and Jormun doesn't seem to notice; that the legislacerator parties are the best parties, so long as no one tries to bring in any contraband.

When they reach the novitiates' common block, it's empty, although down the hall Gamzee can hear a shower running, and a mixture of digital noises and voices that seem to indicate that some of the others are playing computer games in someone's block.

Jormun is a little more at ease now, although he still jumps whenever someone wanders through, especially when it's one of the others in facepaint. Arsast actually comes in and joins the conversation at one point, talking with them for several minutes before casually referring to something that happened at the previous night's Carnival service, at which point Jormun _physically leans away_ from Arsast with a brief, terrified look. He regains his composure quickly, but Arsast is already chuckling.

"Really, you might look into getting some friends made of sterner stuff, Lazapi," he chides.

Lazapi looks put out. "I like my friends, thank you very much," she pouts.

"Ah, is _that_ your problem? I was wondering, you see." Arsast is smirking, just a little.

"My _problem_ is that I've got an obnoxious blockmate, is my problem," she retorts.

Before Arsast can reply, the _other_ door opens, the one that leads to the rest of the subjugglator wing. The four young trolls go still as the Grand Highblood cuts through the common block; the indigos with variations on a diffidence that is beginning to be reflexive, the visiting green looking as if he's trying to meld with the couch and disappear.

Just as the high-ranking adult reaches the opposite door and Gamzee's starting to think about relaxing, the Grand Highblood pauses. He looks back slowly, indigo eyes fastening on Jormun.

"What," he says, his voice low and a little perturbed, "the fuck is this?"

There's a moment of heavy silence. Arsast finds his voice first, turning away toward the dorms with a, "Well, I think that's my cue to leave." His usual insolent lightness sounds thin and forced. He moves quickly, but doesn't quite make it to the door before the Grand Highblood's voice stops him.

"PERCONTATIVUS, get your SCRAWNY FUCKING ASS back here," he snarls, and Gamzee suppresses a shudder as the by-now familiar horn-itch hits, sharper and more intense than usual. Arsast is somewhat less successful in hiding his alarm; he all but cringes and slinks back to his previous position.

The Grand Highblood crosses the room in what seems like far fewer steps than should be possible and yanks Jormun savagely to his feet; Gamzee hears the wet pop of a shoulder dislocating, and his own hands seem strangely unreal to him as he considers the kind of force his Ancestor had to exert to produce that kind of result. The Highblood scores a line across the smaller troll's cheek with one taloned thumb and wipes up the deep forest-green that wells up, smearing it thoughtfully between finger and thumb - although really, the color had already been obvious from the intertwined lines of Jormun's symbol, and his terrified, pained eyes.

"Who brought it in?" the Grand Highblood asks, glancing from one novitiate to the other. "WHICH OF YOU DUMBFUCKS did this fucking grass-blooded creature FOLLOW HOME?"

There's a long moment of quiet, and the itching in Gamzee's horns does not abate, although it's so unchanging that he finds he can almost ignore it. Gamzee catches movement out of the corner of his eye; he doesn't dare turn away, but a quick glance reveals Sephar and Rossan hesitating in the doorway, watching. Rossan is unreadable behind his gaudy paint, and Sephar looks almost smug.

Finally, slowly, Lazapi raises one ink-stained hand to shoulder-height. "I did, it was me," she says, her voice very, very small. If the room had not already been silent save for the green-blood's barely suppressed whimpers, her words might have been lost entirely.

The Grand Highblood clenches his fist around Jormun's arm, and blotches of green begin to show on the gray of his sleeve where the subjugglator's claws dig in. "THIS FUCKER A QUADRANT of yours, Kometes?" the huge troll demands.

Lazapi's gaze drops to the floor. "No, sir. He's not."

With a grunt, the Grand Highblood shoves his captive in Lazapi's direction; Jormun stumbles, falls to the floor at her feet, supporting himself on his uninjured arm. "CULL HIM," the indigo adult instructs.

Lazapi looks up suddenly, wide-eyed. "What?"

The Grand Highblood's reply sounds almost exasperated. "Kometes, you're a fucking promising caricatortionist, but if you're GOING TO MAKE YOUR OWN PIGMENTS you have got to do it SOMEWHERE FUCKING ELSE. Don't fuck around with your supplies, and don't BRING THE FUCKING CREATURES IN HERE."

The girl stands frozen, lilac tears starting to gather in the corners of her eyes, and Gamzee feels sick. It's obvious she can't do it. This troll is a friend - fuck, wasn't she acting like she might be pale for him, earlier? - and culling friends is a skill which Lazapi does not possess. She doesn't even kill the strangers she harvests blood from. He's willing to bet that she's never done anything like this before.

And Gamzee -

(analogous colors, muddled together in a fresco of crude diamonds in their honor, because it's right and it's appropriate and it's _motherfucking hilarious_ )

\- and Gamzee _has_.

"Wait, I'll motherfucking do it." The words are out of his mouth before he's quite aware he meant to say them, and suddenly all eyes are on him. Too late to take it back. Too late to do anything but reach for his specibus.

" _Gamzee_." Lazapi's voice is somewhere between a gasp and a snarl, and there's an electric edge to it that makes the pit fall out of his stomach. "Gamzee, _no_."

He doesn't answer. What does one answer to that? Instead, he steps forward, fingers flicking over the cards in his strife portfolio until he comes up with one of the training weapons, a blunt, solid metal baton as long as his forearm.

Gamzee shifts the cold grip in his hand, looking down at Jormun. The green-blood is still on his hands and knees - well, hand and knees, his injured arm held tight to his side - and he looks up at Gamzee in wordless terror.

"Sorry, broth- sorry, man," Gamzee mutters, catching himself, because the least he can do is the give Jormun the dignity of not using the honorific the other troll had not wanted. "Look down at the motherfucking floor."

Jormun keeps staring at him, uncomprehending.

"The floor, motherfucker," Gamzee repeats, a bit of a growl in his voice, a bit of a buzz in his teeth. "Get your motherfucking examination on and we'll do this quick-like."

His victim (no, the Grand Highblood's victim, Jormun is a dead troll anyway and Gamzee is simply doing the deed - oh god oh _mirthful messiahs_ where is his moirail _what would his moirail want him to do_ ) finally hangs his head. Gamzee lifts his club, taking aim at the back of Jormun's neck; the motion turns him slightly as he lines up and he catches a glimpse of Lazapi, face twisted in horror as Arsast grabs onto her arm as if to hold her back.

He brings the weapon down, square on the green-blood's neck, feels and hears the crunch of troll-flesh and troll-bone which is so different from the inanimate dummies they use in training or even the training drones the subjugglator instructors sometimes bring in. The crunch which he hasn't felt when he's had time to think about it, not in...

(she had delusions of vengeance, was motherfucking adorably uppity for her caste, a perfect comedic complement to her moirail's total subservience)

...not in more than two sweeps.

Jormun crumples. Gamzee wants to be sick.

Lazapi strains against Arsast's grip. Gamzee wants to be sick.

The Grand Highblood is grinning, is chuckling. Gamzee wants to be sick.

Gamzee is focused on the bile which _must not_ be allowed to rise in his throat because about the only thing that could make this situation more miserable is _actually_ being sick, because fuck, what could be worse than vomiting on the body of the troll he just culled, and also because if his attention wavers he might give notice to other things, like the way that Rossan has now moved to help restrain Lazapi, who is struggling against the boys in a way that really makes it unclear whether she's trying to reach Jormun's body or go after Gamzee. Or the look of - disgust? fear? something else? - which Sephar threw him before disappearing down the hall. And his own emotions are more than enough to try to process right now, he can't handle the others.

The Grand Highblood claps a gruesomely friendly hand on Gamzee's shoulder, talons still slick with blood and tracing lines of forest-green on Gamzee's bare arm. "Come on, boy," the elder troll says, his voice full of dangerous good humor as he steers Gamzee toward the main subjugglator wing. "The rest of you, get this shit cleared up."

Gamzee allows himself to be led away, feeling numbly... well, alive, only in the sense that he is suddenly very cognizant of the _alternative_. It's not the kind of alive he wants to feel, he wants the kind of alive that's all flashing colors and music, and friends' voices, and the comfortable ambiguity of sopor, and the feel of broad blunt hands with that particular pattern of calluses that comes from sweeps in a four-wheel device (or miraculously, recently and on good nights, on crutches) sliding under his shirt.

Home - the very _concept_ of home, because Gamzee's not sure there's a concrete place that can be called such now; his wrigglerhood hive has no doubt been razed by this point - seems very, very distant.

He's still lost in his own thoughts - avoiding reality - as the Grand Highblood closes the door of the adminisblock behind them, although the adult's voice brings him sharply back.

"Kudos for the fucking initiative, kid. Wasn't sure you had anything like that in you."

Gamzee looks up, thinks he should say thank you but can't, _can't_ take praise for what has just happened. Something sticks in his throat, and he's not sure whether it's the acceptance he doesn't mean or the fuck you he shouldn't say.

Then the Highblood drives a fist into Gamzee's stomach, holding the younger troll upright with his free hand and leaning down to hiss and shout in Gamzee's ear while Gamzee is still gasping, "But don't you FUCKING EVER thwart my orders AGAIN."

And it's a relief.

His Ancestor releases his grip and Gamzee stumbles, clutching his midriff and trying to remember how to breathe. The Grand Highblood is not finished; he strikes Gamzee across the face, so sudden and savage that Gamzee can't say what kind of a blow it is, a punch or a backhand or a slap, except that claws are not brought to bear. Gamzee falls, catching himself painfully on one elbow, half sitting and looking up at the adult who towers over him. A trickle of luke-warm drips from one nostril and down into his mouth and he tastes his own blood, sharp and cool.

It's honestly a relief.

"When I tell someone to fucking do something, I EXPECT _THAT_ FUCKER TO DO IT!" roars the Grand Highblood, and Gamzee cowers, misreads the adult's body language and is utterly unprepared for the kick to his ribs. He gasps soundlessly, and _that_ hurts, curls into himself and _that_ hurts, but not as much as the blows which continue to rain down on him. "I DO NOT EXPECT YOU to fucking let anyone OFF THE FUCKING HOOK for anything, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? DO YOU KNOW what the Kometes girl LEARNED TODAY?"

Gamzee barely registers the question as the Grand Highblood grabs him by the collar and pulls him into something resembling a sitting position. He shakes his head slowly, not sure if his ancestor actually wants a reply.

"She learned," the Grand Highblood growls, "that she can fuck up and someone else will handle it."

There's a pause, as if he's waiting for that to sink in.

"THE FUCKING BITCH LEARNED THAT SHE CAN BE A GODDAMN INCOMPETENT FUCKUP AND SOMEONE FUCKING ELSE WILL FUCKING CLEAN UP HER MESSES!"

Gamzee is let to drop, banging fresh bruises on the floor as he does so. The Grand Highblood leans over him, placing one hand flat on the floor behind Gamzee's head and not seeming to care that he's trapped the tip of Gamzee's horn, holding the younger troll's head flush with the cold tile. Or maybe he does care. Maybe it's intentional.

"But next time, no fucking body will, will they, boy?" he hisses. "NO FUCKING BODY WILL BAIL HER OUT because if you pull a stunt like that again..."

"...you'll cull me," Gamzee hears himself say and then, though he hardly believes he's saying it and wishes he could make himself stop, "Why don't you just let me die now?"

The Grand Highblood laughs. "I'll cull _her_ first. _Then_ I'll see about culling you," he corrects, pulling away, pulling Gamzee to his feet almost gently. "But MAYBE I'll just wait until we get to that point to decide. You're pretty fucking entertaining to keep around, boy. Now get out of my adminisblock."

Gamzee pauses for a long moment in the hallway, trying to breathe.

He doesn't think it's an injury that's making it difficult to feel like he's getting enough air; during the beating, he'd managed to curl in tightly enough to mostly protect his stomach and chest. Vaguely, he wonders if he'd even recognize what a cracked rib felt like. He's never had a cracked rib before. Maybe this is what a cracked rib feels like, or an internal injury, and Gamzee's life thus far has just been enough of a miracle to keep him from having any basis for comparison.

But he doesn't _think_ this is the right kind of pain for that kind of injury, and he doesn't relish the thought of going for medical attention, especially given...

Especially given that it's pretty common knowledge that for prompt treatment of fairly minor injuries, your best bet is probably a mediliquidator. And he doesn't know how tightly knit that field is, but he's not keen to go to any of Jormun's colleagues for treatment of injuries sustained as a result of killing Jormun. The Troll Hippocratic Oath specifically endorses revenge.

Anyway, he doesn't _think_ it's a physical injury, because when he puts his mind to it he can fill his lungs and his head seems a little clearer, so it's only psychological, only a panic attack when his moirail is an unspeakable distance away and thinks he's dead _and there is nothing "only" about that_ but he can cope.

When he feels he's got himself under some modicum of control, he makes his way back to the common block.

At which point he's knocked off his feet again.

Gamzee manages to shield his face from attack for the fifteen seconds or so that it takes before Rossan pulls Lazapi off of him, although he takes a couple of scratches on his arms where she gets past the lightly-armored gauntlets that are a part of his uniform, and she manages to score a line along the curve of one of his horns. Gamzee climbs to his feet again, sure he can feel every bruise and cut on his body individually, as Rossan pins Lazapi's arms to her sides and tries to drag her further away.

"You _bastard_!" she gasps, the yellows of her eyes going gold-orange. Her hand clenches around the pen in her hand, a heavy, old-fashioned thing with a sharply pointed steel nib. He notices both her hands are stained green, with little flecks of his own indigo. "You bastard, I _trusted_ you, you complete bastard! I trusted you!"

Gamzee takes a step backward, gingerly feeling the scratch on his horn; it's deep, but not to the quick, and it doesn't really hurt. "Lazapi, I am motherfucking _sorry_ ," he says, and wonders if _he'd_ believe himself if he wasn't inside his own thinkpan.

"I got _him_ to trust you!" she snarls. "I told him - I told him you were 'not so bad,' you remember that? You remember I told him to _trust_ you?"

"I know, sis, I'm sorry," he repeats, edging around, trying to get to the hallway without getting any closer to where she strains against Rossan's grasp. "This is me trying to get my motherfucking apology on."

"How the hell could you do that, you fucking _volunteered_ , how could you volunteer, how could you fucking _do_ that -"

Before Lazapi can come up with any more variations on that particular theme - she seems caught in an orbit around that concept, keeps coming back to the same words - Gamzee cuts her off. "I did it because the Gee-motherfucking-Aich was going to CULL THE MOTHERFUCK OUT OF _BOTH_ OF YOU IF SOMEONE DIDN'T DO _SOMETHING_!" he snaps, that electric sensation playing in his horns. "And I just got the SHIT kicked out of me for doing it, so don't attack a brother for MOTHERFUCKING not wanting you to MOTHERFUCKING DIE!"

To his surprise, she actually winces back, going still in Rossan's grip. She glares at Gamzee. "Don't you dare _fear-monger_ at me, Gamzee Makara," she spits, and Gamzee feels his guts twist, feels lost and helpless under her glare. "You stay the hell out of my think-pan. You've fucked me over enough for one day."

Gamzee nods, and a little to his own surprise, he turns and hurries away, not quite running as he heads to his respiteblock. Miraculously, the door is unobstructed; Sephar looks up from the computer - of course, she's _always_ on the computer when she's in the block - and a look of surprise crosses her face as she takes in the blood and the smeared and ruined facepaint.

"What the hell happened to you?" she asks, almost sounding interested for once.

He scowls, slamming the door behind him and storming over to his recuperacoon; dilute slime will be better than nothing for his mental and physical aches. Not much better than nothing, but the best he's got access to. "The Grand Highblood happened to me," he snaps, pealing out of his clothes, not caring that his blockmate is still staring at him. "And then Lazapi happened to me. So I'd kind of mothefucking appreciate it if for once in your joke of an existence, _you_ did not motherfucking happen to me."

She doesn't say anything as he climbs into the slime, which burns briefly in his cuts before easing the pain.

Gamzee doesn't mean to sleep, but he does. His dreams are bloody.


	9. All Sorts of Wicked Delighted

Gamzee sleeps through Carnival and then some, and wakes in the middle of the day.

Well, perhaps not the middle; it's still fairly early in the morning, but Sephar has long since gone to 'coon and so far as he can hear from here, the hallway outside their door is empty and quiet.

He's not going back to sleep now; he's fairly sure he couldn't if he tried. After all, he's slept for several hours now, and the mildest of his scrapes and bruises are almost completely gone, eased away by the sopor slime. Of course, that leaves plenty of more serious aches and pains, deep bruises that make him wince as he scrapes off the slime, cuts on his forearms that flare with pain and indigo when the tip of the strigil catches in one. There's nothing to be doing this time of day, but moving around will perhaps tire him again.

His skin crawls a little as he realizes that he climbed into his recuperacoon without cleaning himself up at all, which is odd, because Gamzee never used to worry about his pre-sleep hygiene back on Alternia. Karkat used to gripe about that, and about how he'd neglect to change the slime for nights or weeks at a time, claiming he could see the color of the slime going off. Gamzee had never told him that sometimes he'd intentionally let it go a little off to give Karkat something to gripe about, that it was _always_ freshly changed when Tavros came over to spend the day.

Of course, at the time, Gamzee ate more sopor than he slept in. Now, his body craves every ounce of the stuff it can absorb as he sleeps.

Maybe, way back when, when they'd been six and they'd been heroes and they'd been doomed, Gamzee hadn't been the only one going through withdrawals; he'd never really thought of it before, but hadn't they _all_ been on sopor every day of their lives up to that point? Does that make the whole mess, and the role he'd played in it, better or worse?

It probably doesn't matter, now.

At any rate, Gamzee still feels faintly filmy and unclean after removing all of the gunk, and his bruises are beginning to throb in the cool air. The showers will be empty this time of day.

It will take more than a shower to remove the hurt and crime, but the dirt and grime of the night before should be easy enough to deal with.

He must have been less rested than he thought, because he almost falls asleep again in the shower. Twice.

Gamzee is half-dressed - shirtless, shoeless, paintless - and examining his bruises in the mirror, when Rossan comes in. He freezes, half-twisted and trying to see the mottled pattern blackening on his narrow back; Rossan gives him a long, appraising look before moving to one of the basins and running the hot water. "Not bad," the other clown comments smoothly. "Not badatall."

Gamzee hunches his shoulders in, staring sourly at a spot halfway between his feet and the mirror. "So not the motherfucking time, Rossan. Even the chica I knew who kept a motherfucking shipping wall when we were kids wouldn't be all shipping anything but Gamzee clubs sopor clubs the rest of motherfucking existence right now."

Rossan snickers. "That wasn't a pickup line, I was _talking_ aboutthebruising," he replies mildly, dipping a washcloth in the basin of hot water and beginning to wipe away his own paint. Gamzee had kind of suspected that was the case, but the couple of weeks he'd spent in close proximity had taught him it was never a safe bet to assume that Rossan _wasn't_ thinking about sex. "Anyway, I'd say Lazapi would getfirstdibs on you right now. I kinda halfthought the two of you had snuck off somewhere after I let her go, when you didn't showforCarnival, but Sephar said you justwenttosleep, and according to Arsast, Lazapi just spentthemorning sitting in their block drawingingreen."

It takes Gamzee a moment to process this, and then he grimaces. "Awww, motherfuck, no. I think she was kinda pale for that motherfucker. You ever had someone kill a dude you thought you all were wanting for a quadrant?" It sickens him a little, to think that Lazapi would possibly feel about him the way he'd felt toward Vriska when he'd found Tavros's twisted and perforated body. "I motherfucking promise you, bro, anything she feeling toward me right now is straight-up murderous platonic."

"You seem awfully calmaboutthat."

"Calm, half-asleep, same motherfucking difference."

Rossan chuckles, and Gamzee glances over at him; without the paint, Rossan looks younger, more serious. It occurs to him that this is the first time the two of them have been face-to-face without either of them in paint. He's pretty sure there's something in the Playbill Writings about clowns not presenting their born-faces to each other, but can't find the will to care at the moment; Gamzee hasn't exactly been an orthodox Juggalo anyway, not since he decided he was both the Messiahs and then realized he wasn't.

"Just glad we ain't blockmates or nothing," Gamzee adds. "I wouldn't want to try and get my motherfucking sleep on with her in the block at the moment."

"Sephar's nottoofond of you either, is she?" Rossan comments with a knowing smirk. "Yet you havenoproblem sleeping around her. Interesting."

"You really should shut that motherfucking face hole before it goes and gets you into shit," Gamzee growls.

"Heh, struckanerve."

"If by a nerve, you mean the end of my motherfucking tolerance for complete bullshit."

The smirk will not go away. "Gamzee and Sephar, falling out a tree," Rossan chants, a stupid sing-song that, if Gamzee wasn't already teetering on pissed off, would almost make him embarrassed for the other troll. "Eff-eye-gee-aichtee-eye-en-"

The last letter is lost in a choked off gasp, as Gamzee grabs Rossan and shoves him against the wall. "Thought. I TOLD YOU. To shut the motherfuck. UP!" he growls, and this time he's actually trying to find the crackling good burn in his horns that tells him he's striking fear in another in the most direct way. It comes more easily than he expects. Rossan's unusually light eyes go wide, and he slowly raises both hands.

"Okok I get it," he says, and focusing, Gamzee can almost taste the fear in his mind. "This is Rossan, backing down. YouandSephar can be whateverthefuck you two want to be."

Gamzee lets go of the other troll, releases the chucklevoodoos, his head pounding. He wants... well, he wants what he always wants, but the only thing in that litany of things he craves that's actually available is sleep. With a last glare at Rossan, he storms out of the hygieneblock.

 

"Are you planning on hanging around in here all night?" Sephar asks peevishly, a few nights later.

Gamzee looks up from where he sits, a little uncomfortably, on the floor with his back against the slightly spongy side of his recuperacoon. He shrugs. "Maybe. At least until I got to leave for Carnival. It's my motherfucking block too, you know."

She leans back in the computer chair, folding her hands behind her head and looking at him skeptically. "You can't avoid her forever, you know," she points out. "And you're driving me completely crazy. Just get out of here."

Gamzee drums his fingers against the floor, bored. Inconsequential details don't hold his attention like they used to when he was on sopor; once, he'd have found hours of entertainment in the trappings of the simple respiteblock. Admittedly one of those sources of entertainment would probably have been Sephar's fins or something, at which point she probably would have attacked him. But at least he wouldn't be _bored_. At the moment, he can't quite muster the nerve or the rank bad sense to intentionally start a fight with his blockmate to amuse himself, but he's not sure that state of mind is too far off.

Boredom had been a novel experience when he first started avoiding a still-irate Lazapi by disengaging from the group, but even then, it had been an experience he could have done without. Now, he is actually seriously weighing the pros and cons of continuing to hide in his block, and wondering whether "my presence annoys Sephar" really ought to be filed under "pro" or "con."

"You know, chica," he says after a moment, " _You_ could always go, if you're so motherfucking intent on not being in the same block as me."

She looks at him in what appears to be honest surprise. And although Gamzee had not really meant it - well, not that _he_ particularly wanted to share a space with _her_ either, but he hadn't expected her to listen - Sephar actually smiles crookedly, showing several even, pointed teeth. "You know, maybe I will?"

It occurs to him that he can't remember ever seeing her teeth before; they don't show at all when she closes her mouth.

"In a few minutes. I'll finish this first."

Gamzee doesn't know what she's finishing - he can't see the screen from where he sits, and he doesn't much care. He goes back to drumming his fingers on the floor.

When she gets up and leaves, Gamzee almost trips over himself getting to the computer. He hunts around and pulls up the messaging program which he had dismissed so readily on his second night; perhaps he'll be able to find someone to talk to who doesn't mind chatting about nothing with some random highblooded stranger. Gamzee realizes that he is starved for social interaction, thirsts for it with an urgency that's mostly associated with the sopor cravings that come less and less often. But this craving, at least, he can attempt to feed.

He logs out of Sephar's account and, after a little hunting, finds the option to set up his own. The registration is simple, little more than name and color - and a field for a screen name. It wants it in camelcase, the same format as Trollian uses, and that program that Gamzee and his friends used before Trollian came out - he can't even remember now what it was called, only that the first time Karkat had visited his hive had been when he came and installed it for Gamzee, and then Sollux came and installed it for him properly because Karkat hadn't been able to figure it out.

And he remembers that it was the first program in which he used the screen name which he now types, almost reflexively. And just like that, terminallyCapricious is on the ship's network.

He's still wondering where to start to actually _find_ someone to talk to, when a chat window pops up unprompted, and he's not really sure how many distinct miracles he can count as he watches it.

___ **gallowsCallibrator** has contacted **terminallyCapricious** ___  
GC: DO YOU H4V3 4NY 1D34 WH4T TH3 P3N4LTY 1S FOR 1D3NT1TY TH3FT?

Gamzee stares at the teal letters for a long moment, not sure whether he's waiting to see if anything more appears or if he's just too surprised - too amazed, too happy - to fully process that Terezi Pyrope is not only alive and presumably something resembling well, but notices and cares if someone's using his handle. He lowers his hands to the keyboard.

TC: ShIiIiIt TeReZi, ChIcA, dO yOu HaVe AnY mOtHeRfUcKiNg IdEa HoW gOoD iT iS tO bE hEaRiNg FrOm YoU?  
  
GC: 1 H4D HOP3D YOUD H4V3 TH3 D1GN1TY TO 4T L34ST NOT 1NS1ST ON TH1S CH4R4D3  
GC: WHO3V3R YOU 4R3!  
GC: 4CTU4LLY, 1 H4D HOP3D TH1S W4S SOM3 SORT OF S1CK CO1NC1D3NC3  
  
TC: wHaT aBoUt a MoThErFuCkInG mIrAcLe, WaS tHaT bEiNg On YoUr LiSt At AlL?  
  
GC: YOUV3 DON3 YOUR R3S34RCH W3LL, 1LL CONC3D3 TH4T PO1NT  
GC: OR P3RH4PS YOU 4R3 ST1LL DO1NG YOUR R3S34CH?  
GC: DO NOT TH1NK 1 D1DNT NOT1C3 YOU H3S1T4T3D MOR3 TH4N LONG 3NOUGH TO 4CC3SS MY PROF1L3 4ND OBT41N MY 1NFORM4T1ON B3FOR3 R3SPOND1NG!  
  
TC: NaW, sIs, sErIoUsLy I wAs JuSt SuRpRiSeD aS sHiT tO hEaR fRoM yOu.  
TC: aNd AlL sOrTs oF wIcKeD dElIgHtEd!  
  
GC: STOP  
  
TC: StOp?  
  
GC: STOP T4LK1NG L1K3 H1M TH1S 1SN'T FUNNY  
  
TC: tErEzI, iT's mE.  
  
GC: NO 1T'S NOT  
  
TC: It'S GaMzEe MoThErFuCkInG MaKaRa.  
  
GC: 1T 1SNT  
GC: YOUR 1MP3RSON4T1ON 1S SK1LL3D BUT YOUR D3C13T R33KS  
GC: YOU 4R3 4 W4SH3D OUT 1M1T4T1ON  
  
TC: rEaLlY ChIcA i'M mOtHeRfUcKiNg NoT. :o(  
  
GC: PL34S3 TH1S 1S R34LLY V3RY D1STR3SS1NG  
GC: G4MZ33 W4S 4 GOOD FR13ND OF M1N3  
GC: W3 W3R3 QU4DR4NT-CORN3RS THROUGH MY M4T3SPR1T  
GC: 4ND 1 DON'T UND3RST4ND WHY YOU'R3 DO1NG TH1S  
GC: BUT WH3N 1 F1GUR3 OUT WHO YOU 4R3 1 W1LL M4K3. YOU. P4Y.  
  
TC: ShIt SiStEr ThAt WaS rEaLlY mOtHeRfUcKiNg SwEeT, uP tIl yOu StArTeD tHrEaTeNiNg Me AgAiN.  
TC: i WiSh I cOuLd uP aNd CoNvInCe YoU i WaS mY mOtHeRfUcKiNg SeLf :o(  
  
GC: K33P T4LK1NG. 1M S4V1NG TH1S LOG 4S 3VID3NC3. YOUR3 JUST D1GG1NG YOURS3LF D33P3R.

Gamzee frowns at the screen, noticed a button labeled "directory." Curious, he pushes it, and finds a listing of accounts, divided up by blood color. The default setting seems to give him blues and up - probably keyed to give him a range around his own color - but it's not hard to find the rest of the list.

There's also a filter that only shows the new batch of recruits.

TC: YoU cOuLd TrY AsKiNg oNe oF tHe oThEr NeW iNdiGo MoThErFuCkErS.  
TC: ThEy KnOw AlL wHo I bE.

There is a long moment when nothing happens, and then a second chat window opens on the screen.

___ **mercurialDauber** has contacted **terminallyCapricious** ___  
MD: Gamzee? I~ that y.u?  
  
TC: yEah, WhO's ThIs?  
  
MD: It'~ Lazapi. And ye~ I still hate y.u, dOn't get excited.  
MD: Why i~ there a teal-blO.d demanding that I te~tify under Oath ab.ut yOur identity?  
  
TC: HaHa ShE aCtUaLlY dId It! ThAt'S jUsT tErEzI, sHe'S AlL tRyInG tO fIgUrE oUt If I ReAlLy Am My FiNe SeLf.  
  
MD: Why w.uldn't yOu be y.urself?  
  
TC: i KiNdA wEnT aNd LeT hEr ThInK i'D bEeN cUlLeD.  
  
MD: Why wOuld y.u dO that?  
  
TC: MaN, i DuNnO, ChIcA, i WaS mOtHeErFuCkInG cRaShInG pReTtY hArD tHe FiRsT fEw DaYs AnD tHeN iT kInDa SeEmEd bEsT.  
TC: sO sHe WoUlDn'T dO aNyThInG sTuPiD aNd CoMe SeE mE oR sHiT.  
  
MD: Fuck y.u.  
  
TC: Oh ShIt, SoRrY.  
  
MD: Fuck yOu.  
  
TC: i DiDn'T MeAn iT LiKe ThAt  
  
MD: Fuck y.u fuck yOu fuck y.u  
  
TC: LAZAPI  
TC: please listen, chica  
TC: I AM MOTHERFUCKING SORRY  
  
MD: Fuck yOu.  
  
___ **mercurialDauber** has cut contact with **terminallyCapricious** ___

Gamzee doesn't have time to do much besides sigh and bury his face in his hands when Terezi's window begins to flash again.

GC: YOU H4V3 B33N B3TR4Y3D, 1MPOST3R  
  
TC: oH sHiT nO, yOu jUsT MaNaGeD tO aLl uP aNd InTeRrOgAtE tHe OnE wHo AcTuAlLy HaS rEaSoN tO hAtE mE.  
  
GC: YOUR D3SP3R4T1ON 1S D3L1C1OUS, F4K3Z33  
  
TC: CoMe On, WhY wOuLd AnYoNe WaNt To uP aNd PrEtEnD tO bE tHiS mOtHeRfUcKeR?  
  
GC: 1 LOOK FORW4RD TO F1ND1NG OUT  
  
TC: MOTHERFUCKING GODDAMNIT TEREZI  
TC: what do i motherfucking have to do  
TC: TO GET IT INTO YOUR POINTY LITTLE THINKPAN  
TC: that it's really me?  
  
GC: ...  
GC: OK 1 DONT KNOW HOW YOU FOUND OUT 4BOUT TH4T ON3  
GC: BUT 1T'S NOT GO1NG TO WORK

With a groan, Gamzee leans back from the keyboard and grits his teeth. He can't believe this, it's like she's being stupid on purpose. Not what he'd have expected from Terezi - not that it makes any sense that _she's_ an imposter, what would be the point of that? But this isn't like her, isn't typical of...

Isn't typical of...

Might _that_ work? It wasn't something they ever discussed outside of their circle of friends. She might accept that.

TC: SoRrY, i'Ll TrY AnD KeEp ChIlL, sIs.  
  
GC: DONT C4LL M3 S1S  
  
TC: jUsT gOt A lItTlE cArRiEd AwAy bEiNg AlL aNgRy AnD sHiT  
TC: CaUsE iT fEeLs KiNdA lIkE yOu'Re bEiNg MoThErFuCkiNg DeLiBeRaTeLy ObTuSe  
  
GC: YOUR3 NOT H3LP1NG YOUR C4S3  
  
TC: hOw bOuT tHiS  
TC: i tone down the bard of rage  
TC: AND YOU ACT LIKE THE SEER OF MOTHERFUCKING MIND I KNOW YOU ARE

A long moment. Was that the wrong thing to do? Has he scared her off for good? But then, finally, a burst of short lines:

GC: 1 WH4T  
GC: J3GUS FUCK  
GC: >:O  
GC: G4MZ33!

 

Gamzee lets out a long breath, feeling lightheaded with happiness and relief. His hands seem to move more smoothly now as he types, rocking on and off of the shift key with a fluidity he hadn't realized he was missing.

TC: hOnK hOnK :o)  
  
GC: YOUR3 AL1V3!   
TC: SuRe Am, SiStEr  
TC: sAy, CaN i AlL uP aNd TeLl YoU hOw MoThErFuCkInG wOnDeRfUl It Is To HeAr FrOm YoU nOw, WiThOuT yOu GeTtInG aLl BoThErEd At Me?  
  
GC: OF COURS3 YOU CAN  
GC: 1  
GC: 1M R34LLY NOT SUR3 HOW TO PROC3SS TH1S  
GC: 1 M34N 1M GL4D YOUR3 4L1V3!  
GC: BUT WHY?

Gamzee hesitates for a long moment before replying.

TC: CaN't SaY i'M aLl CeRtAiN mY oWn SeLf  
  
GC: BUT?  
  
TC: wHaT mAkEs YoU tHiNk ThErE nEeDs Be A buT tHeRe, ChIcA?  
  
GC: G4MZ33, 4R3 YOU B31NG 3V4S1V3 ON PURPOS3 OR 1S 1T JUST TH3 SOPOR T4LK1NG?  
  
TC: Aw, SiS, nO iT aIn'T nEiThEr oF tHoSe ThIngS yOu JuSt SaId.  
TC: jUsT fIgUrInG oUt WhErE tO MoThErFuCkInG StArT  
  
GC: >:?  
  
TC: ReMeMbEr HoW vRiSkA wAs AlL oBsEsSeD aNd ShIt AbOuT HeR AnCeStOr?  
  
GC: NO G4MZ33 1 DO NOT.  
GC: H3R COMPL3T3 1NS4NITY ONLY BL1ND3D M3, K1LL3D 4R4D14, 4ND CR1PPL3D T4VROS.  
GC: OH, 4ND 1M PR3TTY SUR3 TH4T 1TS 4 B1G P4RT OF WHY 3R1D4N 1S SO T3RR1BL3, TOO.  
GC: B4S1C4LLY SH3 D1D 4 PR3TTY GOOD JOB OF RU1N1NG 3V3RYON3S L1V3S.  
GC: WHY WOULD 1 R3M3MB3R SOM3TH1NG L1K3 TH4T?  
GC: PL34S3 DONT T3LL M3 YOUR3 BUY1NG 1NTO TH3 4NC3STR4L D3ST1NY HOOFB34STSH1T NOW?  
  
TC: hAhA, nO wOrRiEs SiS. i KiNdA dOuBt ThErE's MuCh DeStInY mOthErFuCkInG gOiNg On FrOm BeYoNd ThE gRaVe HeRe.  
TC: On AcCoUnT oF hOw My AnCeStoR's StiLl AlIve.  
  
GC: WH4T.  
  
TC: aNd AlSo ThE mOtHeRfUcKing GrAnD HiGhBlOoD.  
  
GC: WH4T.  
GC: TH3 GR4ND H1GHBLOOD? 4S 1N TH3 COMM4ND3R OF TH3 SUBJUGGL4TORS?  
  
TC: ThAt'S aBoUt ThE sHaPe Of It.  
  
GC: 4R3 YOU SUR3?  
  
TC: pReTtY mOtHeRfUcKiNg SuRe.  
TC: SaMe SiGn, SaMe CoLoR, SaMe MoThErFuCkInG HoRnS.  
TC: hE wAs DoWn On ThE mOtHeRfUcKiNg ReCrUiTmEnT fIeLD aNd I gUeSs He Up aNd AlL DeCiDeD hE wAnTeD mE aRoUnD?  
  
GC: 1 DONT L1K3 TH1S, G4MZ33  
  
TC: ShIt, I aIn'T sUrE i Do, eItHeR.

There's a long pause, and Gamzee's heart catches in his throat; he would have thought that actually being able to talk to one of his old friends would be a comfort, but now that he's actually typed it out and sent it, he feels hopeless in a way that he really hadn't before.

Eventually, it's Terezi that breaks the radio silence.

GC: 1 K1ND OF DONT W4NT TO 4SK, BUT G4MZ33, YOU S33M 4WFULLY  
GC: LUC1D?  
  
TC: ...yEaH  
TC: I bEeN oFf SoPoR fOr A wHiLe NoW. gH's OrDeRs.  
  
GC: SH1T.  
  
TC: nO hAlLuCinAtiOns Or NoThIng, ThIs TiMe  
TC: At LeAsT nOt ThAt I'vE mOtHeRfUcKiNg NoTiCeD  
  
GC: WOULD YOU NOT1C3?  
  
TC: wElL iF i BeEn HaLuCiNaTiNg, ThEy'Re AlL dIfFeReNt FrOm LaSt TiMe?

He feels ill, the more he thinks about it, and the mor he thinks about it the more his head hurts and his horns sing. Last time, he hadn't been able to pick apart the voices, decide which were madness and which were possibly invasion. Why would he think he could do it now? Would he know if there were some more pervasive hallucination?

TC: shit how would I tell  
TC: HOW WOULD I MOTHERFUCKING TELL  
TC: maybe i've been getting my crazy on this whole time  
TC: MAYBE YOU'RE A MOTHERFUCKING HALLUCINATION  
  
GC: G4MZ33 TH4TS K1ND OF RUD3 >:/  
GC: 4ND YOUR3 ST4RT1NG TO SC4R3 M3.  
  
TC: sorry chica  
  
GC: YOUR3 ST1LL DO1NG TH3 MURD3RQU1RK.  
  
TC: AM I?  
  
GC: 1 TH1NK YOU N33D TO T4LK TO K4RK4T.  
  
TC: hahaha  
TC: KARKAT'S MOTHERFUCKING BUSY, SISTER  
TC: karkat's out of reach  
  
GC: G4MZ33, 1 C4N G3T 4HOLD OF H1M

Gamzee freezes, looking at the words in disbelief. Slowly, he draws his hands back from the keyboard, as if afraid to break the spell. Contact Karkat? _How?_ But Terezi is still typing, each line a miracle that supports the first.

GC: 1T WONT B3 UNT1L N3XT W33K  
GC: 1D 3XPL41N WHY BUT HON3STLY 4LL 1 UND3RSTOOD OF SOLLUXS 3XPL41N4TION WAS  
GC: B3C4US3 OF T3CHNOB4BBL3  
GC: BUT 1 C4N G3T YOU 4 S4F3 CONN3CT1ON 1F YOU C4N HOLD 1T TOG3TH3R FOR 4NOTH3R W33K  
  
TC: please, terezi  
TC: PLEASE  
  
GC: SO TRY NOT TO K1LL 4NY 1NNOC3NTS

That feels like a punch in the gut, but it's not like she could know, could she? Gamzee clenches his fists for a moment, tries to clear his head before answering.

It would have been easy, if Karkat had been there. As matters stand, it's simply not impossible.

TC: kinda  
TC: MOTHERFUCK  
TC: kInDa A LiTtLe LaTe On ThAt OnE  
  
GC: >:/  
  
TC: MoThErFuCkInG lOnG StOrY  
  
GC: HOLD ON  
  
___ **gallowsCalibrator** has cut contact with **terminallyCapricious** ___

He stares at the screen for a long moment, closes the chat window and logs out, then stares at the blank screen for a long moment more.

He's got something to aim for, now, something to look forward to and then things will be better, and somehow that scares Gamzee far more than just surviving day to day.

 

Well. If Lazapi was available to try and turn Terezi against him - and Gamzee rather hopes Terezi hadn't actually asked her to say anything under oath, because if there's one thing he does not need to deal with, it's the Libra going after Lazapi for perjury - that probably means that she's in her block at the moment, so it should be safe to brave the common block. And Gamzee _really_ does not want to sit alone with the contents of his own head right now.

Nor does he particularly want to jump back on the chat when he can't even hold a steady typing quirk. He doesn't know if he'd be able to find anyone else he knows, and anyway, he's not sure what would be worse - scaring away another of his friends or making that kind of first impression on a stranger.

So leaving the respiteblock it is, then.

He's in luck, Lazapi is in fact nowhere to be seen when he enters the common block. Staiko and Lydain are playing some sort of complicated-looking strategy game - all cards and diagrams and little figural pieces - that Gamzee doesn't recognize. It kind of looks like something Tavros would enjoy, he can't help thinking.

Hell, if Tavros was here, Gamzee might actually put in the effort to learn how to play.

But that's the least productive sort of wishful thinking, and he wanders over to watch. He's not the only spectator; Rossan perches on the arm of a couch, hands folded between his knees, and Sephar stands behind Lydain, occasionally leaning over to take a closer look at the other girl's cards.

It's Sephar who notices Gamzee's presence first, and her brows knit together in what looks very like irritation when she looks up and sees him. "Are you _quite_ finished?" she snaps, and the others look up as well.

Gamzee shrugs, uncomfortable under the gaze of everyone else in the room. "Sure, chica, computer's all yours if you want it," he says, a little uncertainly.

Her eyes narrow and her lip lifts in a sneer, as Rossan bursts into laughter. Sephar stalks to the door, smacking Rossan in the head as she goes and pausing to grab Gamzee roughly by the front of his shirt as she goes past; he's surprised enough that he lets her pull him down to her eye level. "I was talking about that _lovely_ panic attack you felt the need to share," she growls, facial fins flaring slightly. "How the hell has someone not culled you in defense of their own mental stability?" With that, she releases him, and leaves the block.

"What?" Gamzee stares blankly after her; somewhere behind him, Rossan is breaking into fresh laughter. He turns slowly, looking in confusion at the other troll. "Mind filling me in on what's so motherfucking funny, bro? 'Cause I ain't feeling no giggly miracles over here."

"Ohman," Rossan gasps. "You didn'tevenknow, didyou? You didn'trealize whatyouwere doing?"

Lydain raises one thin, carefully painted eyebrow, her face otherwise impassive behind the flat white paint. "Gamzee, you were chucklevoodooing all over the place a few minutes ago," she says. "I mean, we were far enough away out here that we didn't get hit with the full force of it, but..."

"Huh." Well, he had been kind of incredibly freaked out for a little while there; he was still feeling a little edgy. And maybe he'd been feeling a little electric around the horns? But for them to feel it down the hall... "You sure it was me?"

Rossan shrugs. "Youorthe Grand Highblood," he replies. "It hadthatkindof... extreme foreboding vibe youbothdo. You know, like Lazapi tiesyourgutsinknots, or Lyd makes your bloodruncold, or I... guys, what's mine feel like again?"

Staiko snorts. "Like the knowledge that you'll take it the wrong way if I punch you in the face," he says, and Rossan grins at him, showing fangs.

Lydain rolls her eyes. "Yours _does_ have an aspect of... concupiscent threat to it, Rossan," she confirms, then turns to Gamzee. "So yes, it was pretty definitely you, unless there was something _huge_ going on wherever the Gee-Aich is right now."

"Huh," Gamzee repeats. "Sorry about that. Completely didn't mean to motherfucking muck around in your thinkpans, guys."

"You reallyshouldget that under better control," Rossan says. "You'll giveyourself horn cancer."

Lydain looks skeptical, bending her cards slightly between her hands. "I'm pretty sure you can't actually get horn cancer from psychic overuse," she chides. "I'm _pretty_ sure that's just an old lusus tale."

Rossan shrugs, but doesn't look convinced. "So whatwasup? YouandLazapi fighting or something?"

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Gamzee moves to sit next to Lydain, as between Staiko's bulk and Rossan's tendency to sprawl, they take up most of the other couch. "Naw, bro, nothing like that," he says. "Just... hey you all would motherfucking tell me if I went crazy, right?"

Rossan shrugs. "You mean ifyoustarted 'voodooing at everyoneinshoutingdistance?"

"I mean if I... shit." Gamzee hesitates. "If I up and decided I was one of the Mirthful Messiahs or something." Or both, but he figures if he leaves that bit out he can tell himself he's still talking in hypotheticals.

Staiko looks from one painted face to another. "Is that... something that happens a lot with circus folk?" he asks uncertainly.

"No, it is _not_ ," Lydain responds. She reaches over and lays a cool hand on Gamzee's arm, and says in an encouraging tone, "Gamzee, if you ever altogether crack your pan and start blaspheming like that, we'll cull you."

Gamzee nods slowly, considers shaking off her hand and decides against it. "Not sure that was the motherfucking answer I was looking for, but thanks."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freaking chat logs, how do they work? And why did I make a custom skin to include Lazapi when she has almost exactly the same color as Gamzee? The world may never know.


	10. Easier if You Weren't

Gamzee loses himself in the comforting chaos of Carnival.

It's perhaps a little odd that the religious proceedings should be _so_ soothing, as after his converastion with Terezi, Gamzee feels terribly homesick, and he never experienced anything like this on Alternia; among the young, the followers of the Mirthful Messiahs are far too distant from one another and have too much cause to be cautious of the unenlightened. Only in the largest cities does even the most modest of sideshows operate on a regular basis. Gamzee once stayed with Sollux for a few days to attend - oh, he doesn't even remember what holiday it was, now; to Sollux's horror, he'd conclusively proven that taking sopor and mind honey at the same time did not enhance the experience of either, and it had taken odd chunks out of his memory.

As a result, he'd been banned from Sollux's hive indefinitely.

Anyway, that had been his only first-hand experience with other Juggalos in any numbers before leaving the planet, and although he'd spent enough time online, posting in forums and watching video clips, the atmosphere of a proper carnival service is an experience he can only associate with his time on the barracks-carrier.

Maybe it's that it's a comforting experience that _doesn't_ carry memories of everyone else.

Well, mostly.

When a magician takes the stage and sets up for sawing a troll in half, Gamzee has to avert his eyes, because it's never really possible to predict whether or not that's going to be an illusion this time. And while Gamzee is beginning to become acclimated to death - anonymous death which he takes no part in, at least - the sight of a bisected body _always_ makes him think of returning to the site of the aborted three-way showdown to find Vriska and Kanaya gone and Eridan spectacularly dead.

(which was too bad, really, because hadn't Karkat been freaking the fuck out over Eridan earlier? And maybe the brilliant-blooded freak would take notice of his best friend if Gamzee showed that he could help a motherfucker out, but the Rainbow Drinker bitch had beaten him to it)

He closes his eyes, trying to force the memory back. He tries to ignore that those memories have been surfacing more lately; it doesn't mean anything, he won't let it mean anything.

There is no scream, and the chapel erupts in applause, not in bloodthirsty excitement. The magician's assistant is lucky tonight.

Gamzee's eyes fly open as a heavy hand rests almost possessively on his head, loosely circling the base of one horn. "So I was talking to the Labrys girl a little while ago," comes the rough voice of the Grand Highblood, very close by and very low; Gamzee doesn't dare turn, lest the grip on his head turn more aggressive. "She had some... interesting concerns."

Gamzee doesn't know how to answer that, and shrugs, ever so slightly. One talon traces lightly across his scalp, circling a quarter of an inch from his hornbed, just enough pressure to make itself known. Gamzee fights the urge to shudder.

"She seemed to think you were expecting to have a psychotic breakdown or something fucking stupid like that," the Highblood continues, barely audible over the music.

Gamzee swallows hard and manages to find his voice. "She's motherfucking mistaken, sir," he mutters.

"Oh?" The claw dips down, biting into his scalp; as Gamzee winces, it catches the tip and turns the puncture into a short cut.

The younger troll hesitates; he can't full-on deny it, is sure his Ancestor will hear the deception in his voice. "'Expecting' is a pretty strong word," he says finally.

There's a long moment, long enough Gamzee is not sure whether the Grand Highblood is considering his words or has just forgotten his presence. Finally, the Highblood's claw digs in a little deeper before drawing away. "Watch yourself, kid," the adult leans in to murmur, his breath cool at Gamzee's ear. "Don't you fucking dare embarrass me."

By the time Gamzee builds up the nerve to look, the crowd has closed ranks behind his Ancestor's departure, and he can't see where the Grand Highblood has gone.

Gamzee returns from Carnival, gingerly prodding at the fresh cut on his scalp and finding a decent amount of blood already drying and crusting against his scalp. He's glad the scratch isn't any further forward on his head; where it sits, the curvature of his scull funnels the blood back away from his face. A little while ago he could feel it dripping down onto the back of his neck, but at least it didn't go and mess up his paint.

He kind of wonders if the Grand Highblood did that on purpose - would walking around Carnival with his own blood on his face be an embarrassment to the elder Capricorn? It's not as if no one ever gets bloodied in high spirits during the show, but a clown _is_ supposed to look after his face.

Anyway, he needs a shower and maybe to get his shout on at Lydain - no, wait, if she's already gone and freaked enough where she thinks it's a good idea to go directly to the Grand Highblood, he really ought to chill out... it hurts, it almost physically hurts to keep this frustration but he _will not_ do anything stupid now, not with contact with Karkat within reach.

A week more, and he can talk to his moirail. That's the biggest motherfucking miracle he's heard since he's not sure when, and he will not fuck it up. He can't.

Lazapi is standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall between her door and Gamzee's, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She's staring at the floor, and Gamzee can't read her expression, though he thinks she looks as thought she might have been crying not too long ago. Her fingers are stained faintly green.

He hesitates in front of his respiteblock door, wondering if he ought to say something, and she looks up.

"I finished rendering his pigment," she says simply, her voice flat.

"You...? Oh," he replies lamely, looking down at her tinted hands and catching her meaning, and Lazapi turns her face away from him, just watching him out of the corner of her eye. "Why you all telling this at me, chica?"

"I don't know, I really don't know," she admits. "It just kind of seemed like you ought to know. Seemed like the right thing to do."

"And you gotta be doing what feels right," Gamzee agrees. "So you got him all bottled up neat and safe, then?"

"Yes." Lazapi's voice takes a defensive edge, and one hand flips through her sylladex - he can't see what modus - to come up with a vial of deep green, which she turns carefully in her fingers. "He was one of my earliest critics and he was always helpful and he _doesn't deserve to be wasted_ so don't you dare judge me -"

"Nah, I motherfucking get where you're coming from," he cuts her off, and he does get it -

( _are you next? :o)_ painted on the wall and he just wishes he was a better fucking artist, but even if there's no hesitant laughter or terrible rapping or attempts to explain some card game or even _warmth_ at least there's rich peanut-butter brown)

\- he wishes he didn't get it, but he does, and he hopes she'll believe him.

He's not sure she does, from the look she gives him, but she doesn't continue to attempt to justify her choice to process a dead friend's blood into ink.

"I know I hella told you already," Gamzee adds after a moment, "but I'm really, really motherfucking sorry."

"It'd be easier if you weren't," she admits. "That way, I could just avenge Jormun and get it over with, then."

"Lotta people would anyway," he points out, not sure why he's essentially giving her permission to continue to try and attack him, because didn't he just decide not to do anything stupid?

"I don't take revenge on the repentant," she says, and there's something about the phrase that seems like it should ring a whole tower full of bells but he can't place why.

He thinks he should say more, but isn't sure what, and settles on, "He seemed like a decent motherfucker, I'm sure his ticket to the dark carnival was good... no, wait, he weren't no Juggalo, was he? Wouldn't want a brother saying that about him." Gamzee wishes he knew more comparative religion now, wishes he knew _anything_ besides Circus Cultism, and that bit he picked up about the Cult of the Signless a few perigrees back when a few of them figured out who Karkat was, and it had fallen to Gamzee as the scarlet-blood's moirail to convince them to back off because Karkat was too freaked out and angry to form coherent sentences. Gamzee's pretty sure he was only successful because the message they got was that the Second Signless's Juggalo moirail was getting bored of their shit, and no troll in anything like their right mind intentionally bores a circus cultist. "But I think he probably wouldn't have had no trouble getting into whatever sort of motherfucking paradise he was-"

"Shut up, Gamzee," Lazapi snaps, cutting him off. "You don't know anything about him or what he believed. Just shut up."

She turns away, going into her block and shutting the door firmly behind her.

A few evenings later - not yet a week, but the promised conversation with Karkat drawing closer, and Gamzee realizes that he's not entirely sure _when_ Terezi means to contact him because she was pretty vague about that; he needs to talk to her again and find out - Gamzee is summoned to the Grand Highblood's adminisblock.

He tries to tell himself that the hesitancy he feels is because this is getting in the way of going to class, and he rather likes the history that's scheduled for this evening, because he kind of gets the impression that they get a lot less edited version of events than most trainees and sometimes he can see where it fits in, all puzzle-like, with the stuff Aradia was always digging up and telling everyone about. There's still plenty missing from both accounts, of course, and while he was always happy to let Aradia talk at him that doesn't mean he necessarily remembers much of it.

But really, he knows that's not the reason he doesn't want to answer his Ancestor's summons, because it's not like tonight is going to be the night that the instructor up and admits that the Signless existed or something, and honestly going off the sopor has not caused such a change in Gamzee that he would really object to missing class once in a while.

Really, it's just that he hasn't been in there since the night he culled Jormun, and he'd kind of have preferred for that state of events to continue. But refusing the Grand Highblood's orders isn't really something he ought to do if he wants any _other_ state of events to continue, so Gamzee gets an almost-maybe-a-promise to take notes for him from Arsast and reluctantly heads off to answer his Ancestor's call, wondering if this is how condemned criminals feel - wait, no, that's probably disrespectful as all fuck to be thinking, isn't it? It's not like he actually _expects_ to be culled or anything. Not when the Grand Highblood has been so very clear about how _entertaining_ Gamzee is.

Gamzee knocks at the door to the adminsiblock and waits what seems like a long time, shrinking back against the wall momentarily as some adult he doesn't recognize passes - no one's been culled yet for getting in the way, but that doesn't mean no one will be, and Gamzee would rather not be the first.

Finally, something comes from the other side of the door that he thinks is _probably_ "Come in," so Gamzee carefully opens the door and slips inside.

The Grand Highblood stands stooped over his desk, apparently examining the mess of papers there, hands braced shoulder-width apart and the chair half-askew and forgotten somewhere behind him. He glances up as Gamzee enters, and distractedly beckons him over with a crooked claw.

"Kid, you actually lived in the area where we picked you up, right?" he asks without preamble, as Gamzee approaches.

"Yeah, more or less," Gamzee replies cautiously.

"You ever hear anything about any of the blue-bloods in the area having fucking weird pupations or anything?"

Gamzee shakes his head, and after a moment realizes that the Highblood isn't really looking at him at all and says, "Not that I motherfucking remember."

Well, god-tier ascension isn't really the same as pupation, he figures, even if in some cases it does involve a cocoon. And he didn't so much hear about it as watch in dazed amazement from the Land of Tents and Mirth as Skaia lit up all orangey-yellow miracles.

Spread across the surface of the desk are dossiers on a number of blue-blooded girls, he sees, all with signs that involve bumps or hooked arrows or both. Gamzee tries not to let his gaze rest too long on a picture of Vriska, looking very young and defiant and a little ill at ease with what appears to be a newly fitted robotic arm. He vaguely remembers her and Terezi and Tavros trying with varying degrees of success to hide their panic over news of the Accident reaching some official channel, and a drone being sent out for disability documentation, adding a note to an official file on each but apparently deciding that they were all young and resilient enough to hold off on culling for now.

"Can I ask...?" he begins hesitantly.

The Grand Highblood looks up again, a slight smirk playing on his face. Or maybe that's just what a smile looks like on the older troll, Gamzee's really not sure he can say. "Ask? What the fuck I'm doing looking through these for, or why the fuck I called you in?"

"Little of each?" Gamzee replies.

His Ancestor chuckles. "You remember that mess with the threshecutioner cadet?" he asks, and although Gamzee nods, the Grand Highblood doesn't seem to be particularly looking for a response. "She's been busy. I completely didn't fucking expect to ever hear anything from her again, but apparently a winged blue-blood commandeered an astroclipper a couple of nights ago in the inner reaches."

Gamzee has to focus very hard not to grin like a dope. He should have known that Vriska wouldn't be content with a gunship. Probably her new craft is decked out in full spider motif by now.

"And I still have no fucking idea who the fuck she is," the Grand Highblood growls. "Fucking useless informant we picked up in the riot doesn't even seem to have gotten a clear look at her sign - the mentassailants picked out Scorpio, but that's fucking impossible, there's only one Scorpio on record in this sweep's brood, and she was registered as maimed three sweeps ago..."

He looks up sharply at Gamzee. "So I thought, hey, the fucking kid's about the right age and the right geographic area, maybe he knows something about who she might be."

Gamzee swallows hard and shrugs, looking down at the desk and hoping it comes across as interest in the papers and not as trying to avoid the Grand Highblood's too-direct gaze. He wonders briefly how effectively he can lie to his Ancestor, because that was pretty damn close to a direct question on a matter that Gamzee does _not_ want the Subjugglator commander to get answers. He's not even sure why. It's not as if he's fond of Vriska - she's loud and confrontational and not in a good way, she has no sense of aesthetics or wonder, and the way she interacts with Tavros sometimes makes him distinctly uncomfortable, even through a haze of sopor. Plus there's the whole matter of the Accident, and of what happened in the veil.

But it's an unspoken rule among the trolls who played that game that one does not screw over other Sgrub players, because it's hard enough without killing each other off, lonely enough without betraying the only other trolls who really understand what happens when Gl'bolyb dies or how universes are spawned or that sometimes dreaming and dying have about the same effect.

So he ignores the stupid, irrational certainty that the Grand Highblood will somehow know his deception, and answers, "I can't all say I do, sir. Sorry."

On the desk, 5-sweep-old Vriska stares up at him.

There's a long moment where Gamzee is sure that the Grand Highblood knows his deception, but the Capricorn adult doesn't say anything. Finally, the Highblood gives a kind of amused snort.

"Well, that's kind of a fucking waste of everyone's time," he says, but there's no venom in it, and Gamzee feels almost weak-kneed with relief. And then his cool blood runs icy again as the Grand Highblood adds, "Any particular reason you've been staring at the Scorpio?"

Gamzee shrugs, his throat far too dry to attempt a response.

"No?" In it's way, the lightness of the Grand Highblood's voice is worse than shouting. This, Gamzee realizes, is his Ancestor in a good mood - but this is also the troll who considers viciously putting down a block full of rioting threshecutioners to be a good time. Gamzee's learned to cringe from an angry Grand Highblood; he's not sure what to do with a cheerful adult.

"Little bitch is about your age, and she ain't bad looking for half a troll," his Ancestor continues. "If you want her, it shouldn't be too hard to track her down."

Gamzee shakes his head quickly. "Nah, sir, not really interested," he manages to say, without sounding too much like he's choking on the words. He's not sure which is less appealing, the thought of drawing attention to Vriska's absense - or the thought of actually... _doing anything_ with Vriska. She's not that kind of rival. Not really a rival at all, except maybe in her own crazy head.

The Grand Highblood raises an eyebrow, the expression twisting paint that's really not designed for skepticism. "So if you ain't interested, boy, why the fucking interest? You know her?"

Again, Gamzee shrugs. "When we were kids," he replies, which isn't a lie.

"Yeah?" The adult is beginning to sound annoyed. "Boy, do you fucking want me to find the girl or not?"

"No, no, that's cool," Gamzee says quickly. "Mostly knew her because she went and flushcrushed on the same guy I was red for." Both are true, of course, although to be perfectly honest the second bit would almost be a rationale for Gamzee to _want_ someone to go track her down and bring her back - but no, even if she makes her way to the resistance, Gamzee's gotta trust Tavros. The guy's got a good head between those really impressive horns, after all.

The Grand Highblood's face is unreadable. "And? Fucking go on," he prompts, and Gamzee's not sure whether he's looking for a reason to go after Vriska or punish Gamzee or if he's just plain interested in the story for some reason.

"She... kinda all flip-flopped hard over him?" Gamzee adds. The Grand Highblood, listening with what certainly appears to be rapt attention, is the last person Gamzee wants to be telling this to, way at the top of a list of people he doesn't want to talk about this with, a list that includes everyone in every known universe except maybe Karkat. Maybe. "And then she went and threw him off a motherfucking cliff. A little before this was taken." He reaches out and taps at the photograph with a hesitant hand.

His Ancestor looks down at the image, taking in the proud, terrified five-sweep-old with the fresh facial injuries not quite hidden behind a sweep of wiry hair and the robotic arm that still causes angry blue irritation where it meets flesh, and his paint is split by a slow, knowing grin. "Right, I get the fucking picture," he says. "You done with her, then?"

It's not an accurate picture, but it's one Gamzee can live with the Grand Highblood having. Terezi would not be pleased by his taking credit, but then, Terezi is not currently standing in a block with the most feared land-dwelling troll in the empire, so he figures it probably comes out about even. He nods as firmly as he can manage.

Apparently satisfied, the Grand Highblood turns back to the mess of papers on the desk. After a short moment, he looks up at Gamzee in bemused irritation. "Well? I'm sure you're missing some schoolfeeding or training or something," he says. "Get."

Gamzee gladly gets.


	11. A Dangerous Rot-Pan

Gamzee's not sure why he hasn't noticed in the past - except maybe that she's generally already out of the block by the time he gets back from Carnival - but Sephar tends to take long showers. With the benchmark of a week drawing near, he takes advantage of her absence one morning to log into the IM program while the block is empty, and is glad to see a certain teal username online.

___ **terminallyCapricious** has contacted **gallowsCalibrator** ___  
TC: hEeEy ChIcA, yOu ThErE?  
GC: H1 G4MZ33  
GC: WH4TS GO1NG ON?

Gamzee tells himself that there is _no way_ he could possibly be reading caution or diffidence in two lines of Terezi's notoriously confrontational and opaque typing quirk. He almost believes himself.

TC: Aw, JuSt ChEcKiNg In WiTh My BeSt BrO's BeSt GiRl, AiN't I aLlOwEd To Do ThAt?   
GC: OF COURS3  
GC: JUST 1 H4V3NT H34RD FROM YOU 1N 4 F3W N1GHTS  
GC: 1 KNOW YOUR3 4L1V3 NOW YOU DONT H4V3 TO 4VO1D M3 OR SOM3TH1NG  
GC: >:\   
TC: sOrRy SiS, dIdN't MeAn To IgNoRe YoU oR sHiT, jUsT bEeN HeLlA BuSy OvEr HeRe.   
GC: 1TS COOL  
GC: 1 K1ND OF F1GUR3D 1TD B3 SOM3TH1NG L1K3 TH4T  
GC: 1 M34N TH3Y K33P US PR3-L3G1S JUMP1NG TOO   
TC: HaHa, I jUsT mOthErFuCkInG bEt ThEy Do. GoTtA kEeP yOu SmArT bItChEs AlL uP oUtA tRoUbLe, RiGhT?   
GC: 1T 1S S1MPLY 1MPOSS1BL3 TO K33P M3 OUT OF TROUBL3, G4MZ33 M4K4R4  
GC: 1T C4NNOT B3 DON3 W1TH 4NY 4MOUNT OF SC3DUL3 4BUS3 >:]   
TC: :o)  
TC: sO's AnYwAy I wAs AlL uP aNd ThInKiNg I sHoUld GeT mY cHaT oN WiTh YoU aNd ChEcK iN  
TC: LiKe AlL aBoUt WhEn We'Re gOnNa MaKe ThAt MiRaClE uP aNd HaPpEn AnD tAlK tO tHaT fInE MoIrAiL oF mInE?   
GC: OH! 1 TOT4LLY THOUGHT 1D TOLD YOU, 1M SORRY  
GC: N1GHT 4FT3R TOMORROW  
GC: YOU GUYS G3T FR33SH1FT, R1GHT? B3TW33N 4FT3RM1DN1GHT CL4SS3S 4ND D1NN3R?   
TC: yEaH tOtaLlY  
TC: I gOt CaRnIvAl aFtEr DiNnEr, BuT i'M aLl FrEe FoR fReEsHiFt.   
GC: SW33T  
GC: 3QU1US S4YS H3 C4NT M4K3 1T TH1S W33K SO 1TLL B3 JUST US  
GC: W3 US3 MY HUSKTOP USU4LLY 4ND SOLLUX S4YS 1T DO3SNT M4TT3R WH3R3 ON TH3 SH1P W3 4R3, SO DO YOU W4NT TO COM3 4ROUND H3R3 OR SHOULD 1 M33T YOU TH3R3?   
TC: OH MOTHERFUCK NO  
TC: we'll do it at your place   
GC: >:? YOUR QU1RK 1S SL1PP1NG 4G41N   
TC: SoRrY   
GC: 4NYW4Y W3 C4N TOT4LLY M33T H3R3 1F YOUR3 4SH4M3D TO 1NTODUC3 M3 TO 4LL YOUR F4NCY N3W H1GHBLOOD3D FR13NDS OR SOM3TH1NG   
TC: aW nO cHiCa YoU GotTa KnOw It AiN't ThAt At AlL.   
GC: >:\   
TC: JuSt BaD sHiT hApPeNs WhEn MiDbLoOdS gEt AlL uP iN HeRe, ThAt'S aLl.  
TC: can't let you motherfucking end up like   
GC: L1K3...?   
TC: MOTHERFUCKING FORGET IT, TEREZI.  
TC: just let it drop   
GC: YOU R34LLY C4NT T4LK TO K4RK4T SOON 3NOUGH, C4N YOU?   
TC: PrEtTy MuCh MoTheRfUcKiNg No To ThAt, SiStEr, BuT i ThInK i CaN AlL uP aNd GeT a HaNdlE oN a CoUpLe MoRe DaYs   
GC: 1F YOU S4Y SO

Gamzee hears the door open and close behind him and glances over his shoulder to see Sephar.

TC: oH sHiT, mY bLoCkMaTe'S bAcK, i BeTtEr sIgN tHe MoThErFucK oFf bEfoRe ShE sTaRtS bItChInG aT mE aNd cOmEs ReAdS oVeR mY mOthErFuCkInG sHouLdEr Or SoMe ShIt.  
GC: YOU ONLY H4V3 ON3 BLOCKM4T3?  
TC: ThErE's OnLy SeVeN oF uS sUbJuGgLaToR nOviTiAtEs ToTal.  
GC: >:\  
TC: wHaT's ThE sKePtiCaL LiL sMiLeY dUdE fOr?  
GC: NOTH1NG  
GC: 1 H4V3 F1V3 BLOCK13S, TH4TS 4LL  
TC: SoRrY mY sIsTeR, I dIdN't MaKe ThE mOtHeRfUcKiNg DoRm ArRangeMenTs.  
TC: iF i DiD i WoUlDn'T bE mOthErFucKiNg bLoCkInG wItH sEpHaR.  
GC: YOU GUYS DONT G3T 4LONG TOO W3LL, HUH?  
TC: YoU cOuLd MoThErFucKiNg SaY tHaT.  
GC: 1LL L34V3 YOU TO D34L W1TH H3R TH3N  
GC: JUST R3M3MB3R, D4Y 4FT3R TOMORROW, L3G1SL4C3R4TOR 4C4D3MY 4T FR33SH1FT  
GC: 1ND1GO L1K3 YOU SHOULDNT H4V3 4NY TROUBL3 G3TT1NG 1N  
TC: sEe YoU tHen, TeReZi! :o) HoNk  
GC: S33 YOU  
___ **terminallyCapricious** has cut contact with **gallowsCalibrator** ___

He's logging out and shutting things down when Sephar's voice comes from somewhere behind him, and _not_ on her side of the block; for some reason that's what registers first and he turns around to see her pulling a hand out of _his_ recuperacoon before he quite processes what she said.

"When," she's saying, her voice clipped and stony, "were you intending. To inform me. That you _don't sleep in sopor_?"

Gamzee's brow furrows in irritated confusion. "Of course I sleep in motherfucking sopor," he retorts, already half out of his chair, moving toward her. "What the fuck kind of question even is that? And what the motherfuck are you doing mucking around with my 'coon, anyhow? Shit's fucking creepy."

And now Sephar is stalking across the block, all darting anger to his own building frustration, and she slaps him across the face with a hand still slick with slime. "Does that _feel_ like sopor to you?" she hisses.

Gritting his teeth, Gamzee slowly lifts one hand to his face, and his fingers come away coated in a mixture of dilute sopor and paint. His pattern, he's sure, is irredeemably marred, neat white paint spread into black clean across his mouth, black smeared across his cheek, all mixed about with the offending recuperacoon slime. And sure, it's nearly morning and he was about to take his face off pretty soon anyway, but that's not even close to being the point. The point is that she fucking _smudged his paint_.

On occasion, Karkat and Tavros have both smeared his face paint, in affection or in clumsiness on his part or theirs, and that's cool, that's motherfucking fine and he kind of likes the look of his paint on their hands. He thinks it's motherfucking adorable when Karkat doesn't realize he's got white smeared across his forehead, loves it when Tav acquires that smudge on the tip of his nose when they're making out.

More than once, the Grand Highblood has ruined his face in violence, and though Gamzee hates it when that happens he really hasn't any ground from which to complain, not if he wants the opportunity to touch up the lines afterward.

Sephar, though - _Sephar_ does _not_ get to smudge his motherfucking paint.

His horns begin to sing, resonating inside his skull with the crescendo of fucking good rage, and he sees the slight change in Sephar's stance as she feels what he's doing. And he doesn't even care, because the bitch is slinging slander and taking liberties and if the Bard of Rage wants to get his anger on, why the fuck not, why keep pretending to be the Bard of Fuck I Forgot?

"Yeah," he says, and he's not _trying_ to keep his voice level now, it's just in that lull that sometimes coaxes people in close to listen, closer than they really ought to come when he's like this. "Yeah, it does. Might be it's a different dose than you all use, but I WOULDN'T FUCKING KNOW because I DON'T MOTHERFUCKING FUCK AROUND in your MOTHERFUCKING BUSINESS, BITCH. So maybe you should MIND YOUR FUCKING OWN."

She looks alarmed for a fraction of a moment. Then she looks alarmed and _pissed the hell off_ , and there's lightning in her eyes and Gamzee can't quite catch his breath, knows there's adequate air somewhere nearby but he doesn't know how to reach it and there's something pressing in on his chest and making him lightheaded and it scares the fuck out of him.

And he sucks in a great lungful of air because what is he even thinking, of _course_ there's air in here, there's all of that invisible miracle he could want - and still he's got the fucking feeling, even as he draws breath, that he _can't_ , that he's going to die for lack of something that should always be there, that actually _is_ there.

"Your recuperacoon is all of TEN FEET from mine! I think it _is_ my glubbing business if you're not properly sedated during the day!" Sephar spits.

Gamzee laughs harshly. "What, the worst seadweller can't look out for herself?" he retorts, taking a step forward - _oh god oh god he can't breath_ and the fear mixes with anger and pours adrenaline into his system.

"What. The hell. Are you talking about now?" she snarls, baring her teeth. Sephar's teeth are triangular and very even, ever so finely serrated.

Gamzee kind of wonders how many he could knock out with a fist.

Gamzee realizes he also kind of wonders how many he could knock out using only his own more robust fangs.

"You _glubbed_ , sister," he all but purrs. "Glubbed like a MOTHERFUCKING FISHBITCH. Bet it burns you right up, being stuck high and dry and not invited to the PRETENTIOUS FUCKING ASSHOLE PARTY with all the other PRETENTIOUS FUCKING ASSHOLES."

Her eyes narrow each time he shouts, and she's clearly trying hard and failing not to shake from the shoulders on down, but her fists are balled at her sides and she doesn't actually flinch. Gamzee's horns still sing, sing, sing with electric fire, and Sephar glares at him like she can see the harshwhimsy behind his eyes, and the breath catches in his throat and he feels sick, dizzy, and fights through it.

"My god, how the hell are you harping on a _verbal tic_ right _now_?" she spits, stepping forward. "Are you _completely_ insane? Oh, wait, yeah you are! You're the soporless wonder! No _wonder_ nothing you ever do makes any goddamn sense!"

She moves as if to strike him again, and he catches her wrist, his fingers digging between the bones of her arm and not _quite_ drawing blood; she twists away and he pursues.

Gamzee steps in, knowing he's too close for her comfort, finding that at this range he's really too close for _his_ comfort as the idea of suffocating, of drowning, is too great and he can no longer really draw breath, but the lightheadedness that results just makes him giddy and he grins broadly, vaguely, toothily.

And Sephar is smiling fiercely, too, as she reaches as if to embrace him and then instead grabs the hem of his shirt and yanks it upward, fouling it about his horns and blinding him. He flails; she trips him; he lands flat on his back and bangs his horns against the floor, sending twin lances of pain through the fire of the chucklevoodoos. She's on top of him and he struggles to get the fabric clear of his horns, to clear his vision; her carefully trimmed nails skittering over his bare shoulders -

And the door of the block slams open.

"Mirthful Messiahs and all the sideshows, would you guys _cut it the fuck out?_ "

Abruptly, Gamzee can breathe again. Well, maybe not entirely, because Sephar is still sitting on his stomach with her knees clamped on either side of his rib cage, but it's just the "there is a troll sitting directly on my diaphram" kind of not being able to breathe, not the "oh god what happened to the air" kind of not being able to breathe. He manages to disentangle his shirt from his horns, pulling it all the way off with minimal damage to the garment, and, once again able to see, levers himself up on his elbows. Sephar gives a little yelp at the movement, fingers tightening against his shoulders, but other than needing to keep her balance she doesn't seem to be paying him much attention in the moment, instead looking over her shoulder at the intruder.

Gamzee would be a little insulted by her inattention, if he wasn't pretty darn distracted - and pissed off - by the interruption himself. He cranes his neck to look past her at the open door and the wiry, irate form standing in it.

" _Seriously_ , there is not enough sopor on this ship to block out this shit," Arsast snaps, arms crossed tightly over his narrow chest. "I mean, we all kind of expect total psychic incompetence from Gamzee by now, but if _both_ of you are going to start pulling this... _Some_ of us want to actually be awake for that test tomorrow, you know? Which means maybe we wanted to actually get a decent start on today's sleep? Just a thought."

Gamzee fights down the chucklevoodoos a little, suddenly remembering the kind of range he apparently has; he has no objection to laying all he can on Sephar, and at the moment honestly doesn't care much if Arsast gets caught in the crossfire - honestly, who even comes barging into other people's blocks like that? - but if Arsast could get annoyed enough to come tell them off, that has to mean that he was hitting all the rest as well. Which is a little embarrassing, and not what he wanted much to be doing.

"Maybe you can have Gamzee's sopor ration. _He's_ not using it," Sephar retorts, a snide edge to her voice.

"I motherfucking TOLD you, it ain't any of your FUCKING BUSINESS how much sopor I use, an amount which, for your MOTHERFUCKING INFORMATION, is ENOUGH!" Gamzee snarls at the back of her head, and there goes all the attempt to tame the fear-effect, as his horns begin to sing again.

In response, Sephar turns back to face him, shifting both hands from his shoulders to the hollow where neck and collarbones meet, and puts her weight into it, forcing him back down flat on his back. He just barely manages to tuck his chin and avoid whacking his horns this time. "Shut up, Gamzee, sane people are talking," she hisses, leaning in close.

He chuckles. "You're almost funny when you ain't all meaning to be."

"You're never as funny as you think you are. Can you clowns get culled for not being funny? Because you aren't." The breathlessness is back, less intense than before, but noticeable, or maybe that's still the pressure of the heels of her hands at the base of his throat.

"Oh, because what I motherfucking need is to get myself all critiqued by some whiny bitch with no fucking sense of humor." He's starting to get tired of being sat on; clearly, being allowed to stay up there is going to her heard.

"Fucking _mirth_ , you guys, can you at least stop trying to pail each other while I'm _in the block_?" Arsast stalks over to them and grabs Sephar by the arm, yanking her upward and away from Gamzee, who, despite his thoughts a moment ago, is almost disappointed to see her go. The smaller troll hauls her away, pausing to place the toe of one shoe on the orange of still-prone Gamzee's horn and level a long, thin blade at the tall troll with his free hand. "Cut it out with the 'voodoos, guy. _Honestly_. No one can think straight when you do that."

Gamzee glares up at him, trying to remember how _not_ to splash fear all over the place. Eventually he hits on it, and Arsast backs off, dragging Sephar with him. The knife remains drawn and ready.

"You're the one who's all up in our motherfucking stomping grounds," Gamzee points out, sitting up and carefully feeling out the tips of his horns, checking for damage where they hit the floor. They seem to be unharmed - one less excuse to put the hurt on Sephar.

Sephar, for her part, twists in Arsast's grip and tries to get away, but he holds on firmly, glaring at her. "As much as I hate to agree with the crazy stupid bastard," she says, "he's got a point. Get the glub out, Arsast."

"And then you two go back to scrambling everyone's thinkpans in an attempt to get each other to stay still long enough to tear the clothes off of," Arsast retorts. "Yeah, I _don't_ think so."

Shit, when he puts it like that, Gamzee has to realize that Sephar had _definitely_ had the upper hand. He crosses his arms over his bare chest defensively, and Arsast levels a disgusted look at him.

"Work something out, guys, or figure out how to ask for new block assignments with the minimum of getting culled," Arsast adds. "Because I'll be fucked if I'm going to live next door to a pair of cohabiting kismeses. How the hell could either of you think this was a good idea?"

And the terrible thing is, he's got a point. As much as Gamzee's still rather put out that Sephar's now all the way over there when he kind of wants to find out if she's got any gill slits to match those fins and, if so, what kinds of motherfucking noises she makes if he digs his fingers into them, this is kind of a spectacularly bad idea for a whole host of reasons, albeit a whole host of reasons that don't seem to matter much when Sephar's glaring at him.

If nothing else, for all his protests to Sephar's accusations, Gamzee sleeps lightly enough these days _without_ wondering what kind of creative awakenings she can come up with for him. Would Sephar be the type to stoop to that kind of behavior? Gamzee seems to remember some... interesting stories from the early days of some of his friends' kismeships, and none of them were even trying to live together.

But it's kind of rich of Arsast to just demand they _stop_.

Sephar must be thinking along the same lines, because moments before Gamzee's managed to put it into words, she finally manages to yank her arm out of Arsast's grip and stands glaring at both of them, rubbing at the faint claw marks the hook-horned troll left on her arm. "If you're so concerned, don't leave us hanging. I know for a fact that I can't deal with this imbecile."

Arsast looks to Gamzee, arches a brow inquiringly.

"You leave now, motherfucker, and one've us is gonna jump the other again," Gamzee agrees.

With a sigh, Arsast buries his face in his hand, the hand that's not still holding the blade. "So just to be clear, you idiots are asking me...?"

"To auspistize for us? Yeah, _obviously_ ," Sephar spits. "You're calling _us_ idiots?"

"Hey," Gamzee objects, "shut up, bitch, he's TRYING TO HELP."

"If he really wants to be helpful, he should drop the cagey bullshit and help," she retorts.

Arsast has not lowered his hand, but he pushes it up to thread his fingers though his choppy hair so that he can glare out from behind his wrist at them.

"I cannot _believe_ you guys. You're going to be the death of me," he groans. "And if I say no, you cheerfully go back to trying to out-voodoo each other, don't you?"

Gamzee gives him his best slasher smile.

"Fine. _Fine._ I guess it's not like I've got any other ashen obligations at the moment," Arsast finally says.

Sephar rolls her eyes. "Oh, don't act like you haven't been following Gamzee around hoping he'd pick a fight with someone so you could step in," she snears.

Gamzee looks at her incredulously. "I'm pretty motherfucking sure that if our brand-new ashbro here was just all fixated on me, he'd a stepped in with Lazapi," he points out.

"Oh, like the little artist freak is even capable of being a threat to anyone," Sephar says dismissively.

Before Gamzee quite realizes he's moving, he's halfway to his feet. "Don't you MOTHERFUCKING DARE talk shit about-"

"GAMZEE!" If Gamzee hadn't quite realized _he_ was moving, he definitely isn't sure how Arsast goes from standing off to the side with his hand shoved through his hair to standing directly between the two of them; the little troll is _fast_. "If you want my help, you are going to have to make at least a _token_ effort yourself, so could you _please_ stop acting like a rot-pan maniac for _two seconds_?"

Arsast suddenly looks _dangerous_ , like he's got sharper edges to him than the knife in his hand, like Gamzee would cut himself to shreds just trying to get past him. Gamzee's never realized how intimidating _small_ could be, feels huge and clumsy - and then he notices how Arsast has moved his hand to just below his horn bed, fingertips pressed against his skull. It's a gesture he recognizes; he's seen it from both Vriska and Tavros enough times.

Gamzee hadn't even considered that a psimudra might help with controlling chucklevoodoos, and now he feels kind of stupid for never having tried it.

"And put your shirt back on, will you?" Arsast adds. "I mean apparently Seph has _no self control_ whatsoever anyway, but I kind of doubt you standing around half-naked is making this any easier."

"Hey," Sephar objects.

"Well, when I came in, you were straddling him and working on undressing him," Arsast points out. "I think I've got you on this one."

A little reluctantly, Gamzee retrieves his shirt and pulls it back on. He's not sure where the ruff has gotten to, and there are a couple of tears in then fabric from where it caught on the tips of his horns.

There's a moment of awkward, resentful silence, and then Arsast says, "Well, are you going to pretend you were _overset by sheer obsidian lust_ or something stupid like that, or are you going to tell me what set you guys off?"

Gamzee slowly raises a hand. "I'm good with the first option," he says.

"Oh my _god_ , I _cannot_ believe you!" Sephar spits. "Arsast, this guy doesn't use sopor."

Arsast looks a little confused. "Ok, really? I really can't see _Gamzee_ of all people being so much of a straight-edge that it causes problems. How did that even come up?"

"I didn't say he didn't _eat_ sopor, I said he doesn't _use_ it!" she exclaims. "At _all_! He doesn't _sleep_ in it!"

"I do!" Gamzee objects. "I MOTHERFUCKING DO, why the HELL wouldn't I? I up and TOLD YOU ALREADY, I've just got a different dose!" He starts to move toward Sephar again, and Arsast fixes him with a glare that stops him in his tracks.

"What dose?" Arsast asks.

"What?"

"How much _do_ you use?"

Gamzee hesitates. Arsast levels a disbelieving, exasperated look at him. "How _much_ , Gamzee?"

"...half average," Gamzee finally admits.

"Do you mind if I check?" Arsast asks, and Gamzee does mind, but isn't that what an auspistice is _for_ , to do things that he minds so that his co-auspicetee won't do things that he _hates_? So he shrugs.

"Have at it, bro. That one, there," he says, pointing.

Arsast glances from Gamzee to Sephar, and then puts his weapon away before walking over and dipping a narrow hand into the slime of Gamzee's recuperacoon. He closes his eyes for a moment, and the last vestiges of his chucklevoodoos fade from Gamzee's mind, leaving Arsast to seem to be only a very competent young troll rather than a force of nature.

"Ok, yeah, I guess I can feel that," he says after a moment. "I'm not sure _I_ could sleep in that mix, though. And it can't be doing much for those really obnoxious psychic-control issues you have. Why the hell would you use a mix like this?"

"I don't know," Sephar puts in, "because he's a dangerous rot-pan?"

" _Seph_. Shut the hell up," Arsast says absently, barely glancing over his shoulder at her. "Gamzee? We're waiting for an answer."

Fuck.

Might as well.

"Used to eat baked sopor," he says. "Used to eat a motherfucking _lot_ of baked sopor."

"Oh my _god_ , you _are_ a dangerous rot-pan!" Sephar exclaims, her voice sharp with a mixture of anger and triumph.

"But I don't do that shit anymore!" Gamzee adds quickly. "First night we got here, the Gee-Aich all told at me, 'Gamzee, you have to stop doing that shit' so I stopped! I been off it for almost a perigree now, and I ain't killed you yet, chica, so stop being a whiny bitch and saying I'm gonna!"

Sephar tries to say something, and Arsast holds up a hand to stop her. "Anything else you're on, Gamzee? Anything else you do? Honey, dreamstone, booze? Flix or core?"

Gamzee shakes his head firmly. "Nah, just sopor pies, and that's in the motherfucking _past_."

Arsast looks at Sephar. "Has he ever actually, you know, _tried_ to attack you?"

"You _just_ saw-" Sephar begins.

"I saw you guys getting hot and heavy, and from the sound of it, you started it," Arsast interrupts. "Has he ever tried to hurt you in a _platonic_ framework?"

Now it's Sephar's turn to look a little uncomfortable and hesitate before answering. "Well, _no_ , but-"

"So don't fucking give him _reason_ to," Arsast says, cutting her off again. "If you have a problem, bring it to me, and I'll see if I can do anything to club it. But don't fucking _antagonize_ him!"

He looks to Gamzee again. "And you - if you think of anything else we should know, fucking _tell_ us, right? She's not being paranoid if you really are keeping dangerous secrets from her."

Gamzee nods slowly, although obviously, that's not a demand he can really comply with. At least, he assumes that Arsast would count "my other two existing quadrant fills are trying to figure out how to be anti-imperial revolutionaries" as something the others should know.

"Good. Now go wash up, Gamz. Your paint is a disgrace."

Gamzee nods and heads toward the door, figuring he could use a shower now anyway. As he passes Arsast, he pauses, pats the other troll heavily on the shoulder. "Hey, thanks, motherfucker," he says.

Arsast glowers. "Don't mention it. Literally. Ever."


	12. The Miracles Start Happening

The next night and a half feels as if it must be the _longest_ night and a half of Gamzee's life.

He fidgets through the next night's classes - and he doesn't blame Arsast for having wanted to be well-rested for the exam in History of Graffitermination, although Gamzee has to take some comfort that after they've sat for that, out of the group only Lazapi and Arsast really seem at all confident of their work. He's pretty sure Graffitermination is Lazapi's best subject, and Arsast _always_ seems confident anyway, so Gamzee's not sure whether that signifies much.

Freeshift - one day exactly to go.

Gamzee figures that although he has a general idea of how to get to the Legislacerator Academy - it's not far away, as the legislacerators work closely with the subjugglators a lot of the time - he'd rather not get lost when he goes tomorrow and lose precious time trying to find his way. Of course, the easiest solution is to look up directions on the intraship network.

Or that would be the easiest solution, if Gamzee could ever get to the computer.

Sephar completely ignores his requests to use the machine for _just five or ten motherfucking minutes_ , so he rolls his eyes with a sigh and wanders out to the common block where several of the others are hanging out.

Arsast is lounging on one of the couches with a book; Gamzee comes to lean over the back of the couch, hovering over the smaller troll until he folds the book around one finger and looks up. "Yeah, what is it?"

"Sephar won't let me a turn on the motherfucking computer," Gamzee complains.

His auspistice gives him a withering look. "And is this something that's likely to come to blows?"

After a moment's consideration, Gamzee shrugs. "Well, prob'ly not, but..."

"Then deal with it," Arsast replies, going back to his book. "Mirth, Gamzee, I'm your auspistice, not your lusus."

On the other side of the block, Lydain and Staiko pause in their conversation and look over. "Since when?" Staiko asks.

"Since I'm not a big white monster with a bizarre fondness for Capricorn grubs, which is to say, forever," Arsast says absently.

Staiko makes a noise in the back of his throat that's almost a growl. "You know what I meant. Since when are you guys in a quadrant?"

"Last night," Gamzee replies, unable to keep a slightly sheepish smile from his face. "Little motherfucker got fed up with me'n' Sephar, and we roped him in."

Arsast sighs. "And Gamz is already being whiny and codependant as all hell," he adds. "I can see this relationship is going to be _wonderful_ for my blood pressure."

Lydain smiles. "Congratulations, guys," she says.

"Yeah, well, don't throw us a party or anything, but thanks," Arsast replies, and Lydain and Staiko return to their own conversation.

"Hey, s'pose I could be using _your_ computer?" Gamzee asks, after a moment's thought.

Arsast looks up at him skeptically. "I think Lazapi's in there," he says. "I mean, she doesn't use the computer much, so she's probably not on it... although she's been talking about seeing if she can get PhotoAbattoir installed... but I don't know if you were still avoiding her or something."

Gamzee shrugs. "I think we're chill. Enough where she's not about to all up and jump me or nothing. We talked the other day, came to getting a bit of our understanding on."

"If you say so," the smaller troll says vaguely. "I guess it's not my problem if _she_ decides to kill you. If you want to risk it, go right ahead."

"Thanks, man," Gamzee says, and wanders off again.

He pauses outside of the appropriate door, and it feels a little odd to be standing outside the door marked Percontativus and Kometes rather than Lilit and Capricorn. Before he can decide whether to knock or just open the door, though, his own door opens and Sephar steps out.

"Hey, idiot, wrong block," she says, and walks off before he can respond. Gamzee stares after her for a moment, then ducks into his block and goes to the now-vacated computer.

It takes a few minutes to find a useful map, and his destination proves to be more or less exactly where he expected it to be. A quick check finds that Terezi isn't online, so he logs off as well.

Just one more day.

Who the fuck made days so motherfucking long?

 

The time seems to stretch on interminably, and then -

Then it's freeshift again. Gamzee's not sure _where_ the night went; he hopes he didn't zone out too much during anything important. And now he seems almost to be humming with a nervous excitement, keeps checking himself nervously to be sure that it's _just_ anticipation and not chucklevoodoos that burns in his bones.

It is, of course. Chucklevoodoos don't even _work_ like that.

As the novitiates get out of their final training session of the day, Gamzee hardly notices how his wrists ache from the heavier clubs he's only just started practicing with in the last few days - he kind of wishes that if they're going to be using that kind of force, he could just cut to the chase and use the Warhammer of Zillyhoo or something, but that's firmly on the list of "weapons we do not use where anyone can see, lest they start asking inconvenient questions," as set down by Karkat in the first couple of perigrees after the game.

Ah, yes, _motherfuck_ yes, _Karkat_. Gamzee's getting distracted, he realizes. This is not the time to zone out.

He splits off from the group as they start back toward their quarters; Rossan gives him an inquiring look and Gamzee shoots him a lop-sided smile. "Gonna go hang with a friend in the Legi' Academy," he explains. It's all he can do not to add something stupid about contacting his revolutionary of a moirail.

Rossan raises an eyebrow. "Didn't know youhadfriends."

Gamzee's far too keyed up to be annoyed, so he just grins a little wider. "I'm full of miracle surprises and shit, my brother," he replies. "See you at motherfucking carnival if not before, a'ight?"

Rossan shrugs, and Gamzee heads off toward the Legislacerator Academy.

As Terezi predicted, Gamzee has little trouble getting in, whether because of the purplish hue of his blood or because of his subjugglator's ruff-and-cuffs. With little more than a few odd looks, he's let through into a relatively spacious atrium, busy with Legislacerators-in-training fresh off of their night's studies.

Gamzee has just enough time to feel a little uncomfortable under more gazes than he can count, when he hears a glad cackle of "Gamzee!" and Terezi is elbowing, shoving, and occasionally kicking her way across the block. Actually, she's probably being a bit more forceful than necessary; before she's halfway to him, the others seem to have figured out where she's headed and are getting out of her way, and she seems to be making a point of _still_ finding people to run into.

And then they're standing face to face, and Terezi is grinning that ear-to-ear slash of hers, and Gamzee can't help but return it. He spreads both hands. "Do I get me a motherfucking hug, sister?"

"Oh, you know it," she replies and darts in; her grip is crushingly firm as always, and he briefly feels what he's pretty sure is her tongue against the symbol on his chest.

Someone, somewhere on the other side of the block, coos, "D'awww," but is shushed before Gamzee can pick out who it was.

After what feels like a long moment, Terezi pulls back, straightening her glasses. "You know, I'm pretty sure faking your death isn't actually legal," she states, all businesslike chiding that's completely at odds with the smile still splashed across her face.

Gamzee shrugs. "I'm pretty motherfucking sure you ain't about to prosecute a bro for being alive," he replies, and she cackles.

"Touche, Tee-Cee."

A little doubtfully, Gamzee glances around. "Seems like it might be a little all crowded up in here, though?" he says.

It's Terezi's turn to shrug. "We'll requisition one of the study booths in the back," she replies. "I mean, it's not like anyone ever actually uses them for studying, and they're private."

Gamzee nods. "Sounds like a fucking plan," he agrees. "Lead the way, my most legal of sisters."

She makes a show of preening, straightening her already impeccable cropped jacket - he can see echos of her old Flarping getup in her outfit, although this version is much less gaudy and showy, charcoal grey jacket and wide belt over a jumpsuit several shades darker and less saturated than her blood, with her sign on each shoulder. Terezi offers her arm and he takes it, and she all but drags him across the block to a row of closely spaced doors he hadn't noticed before.

It takes a couple of tries before they find an unoccupied one; the third door opens just as they come to it, and a couple of young trolls come out. "Holy fuck, a subjugglator?" squeaks one, a blue-blooded girl, who makes no effort to disguise her effort to hide behind her companion, a mid-green guy who turns an almost skeptical look on Terezi.

"What happened to that big blue-blood, Pyrope, bored of him already?" he asks.

Terezi sticks out her tongue at him. "Shut your mouth, Gabond, or I'll crack you horns open and drink them with a straw," she says cheerfully. "Come on , Gamzee."

The study booth is aptly named, a narrow room boasting little more than a desk and a couple of broad, padded benches. Terezi slides onto one as Gamzee shuts and latches the door behind them, and pulls out her sylladex and coin to scractch-and-sniff out a somewhat battered-looking husktop. As the computer boots up, Gamzee takes a seat next to her.

Terezi grins at him. "Alright, Gamz. We're doing this. We're making this happen."

As Gamzee watches, Terezi pulls up what appears to be a chat program he doesn't recognize - although considering that the color scheme is predominantly red and blue, he has a pretty good idea of where it probably came from. She clicks a few things, types a few things, and then...

Then the miracles start happening.

 **\-----** user **gallowsCalibrator** logged onto connection **6121025**  
 **\-----**  
 **\-----**  
 **\-----** user **twinArmageddons** changed connection name to **Vanta2Ii2ADouchebag**  
GC: H3H3 1S TH4T R34LLY N3C3SS4RY?  
TA: ye2.  
TA: ye2 iit ii2.  
TA: the guy ha2 been iin2ufferable 2iince  
TA: well you know.  
GC: >:\ H3 H4S B33N K1ND OF 4 GRUMPY GRUB  
TA: under2tatement of the 2weep.  
TA: not that ii really blame hiim ii mean ii wa2nt iin much better 2hape after you guy22 flarp acciident.  
TA: 2o who2 goiing two go fiir2t thii2 week, world2 biitchiie2t mate2priite2hiip or the wonderraiil2?  
GC: 4CTU4LLY 3QU1US COULDNT COM3 TH1S W33K  
GC: H3 S41D SOM3TH1NG 4BOUT 4 B1G PROJ3CT DU3 1N 4 F3W D4YS TH4T N33DS H1S UND1V1D3D 4TT3NT1ON  
TA: well 2hiit now we have two deal wiith np mopiing untiil we can contact you guy2 agaiin.  
GC: W3LL W3 H4V3 TO D34L W1TH 4 P1SS3D OFF STRONGTROLL, SO 1 TH1NK W3R3 MOR3 TH4N 3V3N  
GC: H3 S41D TO T3LL H3R TO B3H4V3, WH1CH 1M PR3TTY SUR3 1S 3QU1US SP34K FOR H3 P1T13S H3R 4ND M1SS3S H3R >;]  
GC: 4ND SP34K1NG OF W3, 1 H4V3 4 N3W PROF1L3 FOR YOU TO 4DD TO TH3 N3TWORK  
TA: oh 2hiit who'd you fiind?  
TA: ii2 iit kn?  
TA: iif iit2 ed don't bother ii don't want two talk two hiim.  
TA: "captor ii dont thiink you can handle a long dii2tance relatiion2hiip" my fuckiing a22.  
GC: YOU 4R3NT 3X4CTLY PROV1NG H1M WRONG, YOU KNOW  
TA: 2hut up. ii dont tell you how two fiight wiith vrii2ka now do ii?  
TA: no ii dont.  
GC: 4NYW4Y 1T 1SNT 3R1D4N  
GC: TH1NK GR4P3, NOT PLUM  
TA: haha no but 2eriiou2ly.  
 **\-----** user **gallowsCalibrator** transferred file **TCProfile.prof**  
TA: 2eriiou2ly?  
GC: S3R1OUSLY  
TA: oh 2hiit tz ii thiink iim lo2iing the connectiion  
GC: >:[

Gamzee makes a little strangled sound in the back of his throat; his horns begin to tingle a little and he tries to fight it back. He's not entirely successful, from the defensive set of Terezi's shoulders as she waves a hand vaugely at him.

"Don't freak, that's just our code for 'have you been compromised,'" she explains. "If there was someone official looking over my shoulder and telling me what to write, I'd ask Sollux to try and hold onto the connection, and he'd know it wasn't safe to talk about stuff and cut the transmission."

And sure enough the lines of text start up again.

TA: 2eriiou2ly 2eriiou2ly?  
GC: H3S S1TT1NG R1GHT H3R3 N3XT TO M3 1N 4LL H1S W31RD G4NGLY JUGG4LO GLORY  
TA: 2eriiou2ly  
GC: SOLLUX C4PTOR 1 H3R3BY D3CL4R3 YOU TO H4V3 LOST 4LL PR1V1L3G3 TO US3 TH3 WORD S3R1OUSLY! TH3R3 4R3 SO M4NY OTH3R LOV3LY WORDS YOU 4R3 N3GL3CT1NG  
GC: BUT Y3S, G4MZ33 M4K4R4 1S 4L1V3 4ND H3 1S H3R3 W1TH M3  
GC: SW34R TO GODT13R  
TA: why would you even 2wear two godtiier that make2 no goddamn 2en2e  
TA: but oh 2hiit kks goiing two go ballii2tiic  
GC: W3LL TH3 CLOWN H3R3 SM3LLS L1K3 H3S GO1NG TO H4V3 SOM3 SORT OF BLOOD PUSH3R 4TT4CK 1F W3 DONT L3T H1M T4LK TO H1S MO1RA1L SOON  
GC: SO PUT K4RK4T ON 4LR34DY  
TA: fiine fiine  
 **\-----** user **gallowsCalibrator** logged off  
 **\-----**  
 **\-----**  
 **\-----** user **twinArmageddons** logged off  
 **\-----** user **carcinoGeneticist** logged onto connection **Vanta2Ii2ADouchebag**  
CG: OH COME ON. WHAT THE FUCK, SOLLUX?

Terezi pushes the husktop over to Gamzee, who enters his login information with shaking hands.

 **\-----** user **terminallyCapricious** logged onto connection **Vanta2Ii2ADouchbag**  
CG: WHAT.  
CG: TEREZI I KNOW YOU STILL STRUGGLE WITH THE BASIC CONCEPT OF APPROPRIATE HUMOR BUT IF THIS IS YOUR IDEA OF A JOKE WE ARE OVER.   
TC: wHoOoA BeSt fRiEnD, StIlL HaViNg tRoUbLe tElLiNg aLl tHe dIfFeRenCe bEtWeEn jOkEs aNd mOthErFuCkInG MiRaCleS? :o)  
CG: THIS IS NOT FUNNY. THIS IS SO FAR FROM FUNNY THAT FUNNY COULD SEARCH ITS ENTIRE FUCKING LIFE AND NEVER FIND THIS. FUNNY WILL ALWAYS PINE FOR THIS WITHOUT BEING SURE WHAT IT THINKS IT'S MISSING BECAUSE FUNNY WILL NEVER KNOW THIS EXISTS. THAT IS HOW FAR FROM FUNNY THIS FUCKING IS.  
TC: :o( WaSn'T TrYiNg tO GeT My mOtHeRfUckInG HuMoR On, mAn.  
CG: ARE YOU SERIOUS  
CG: YOU CAN'T BE  
TC: aIn'T I GoOd aT BeInG ThInGs wHaT I CaN'T Be?  
CG: YOU'RE DEAD  
CG: FUCK  
CG: HE'S DEAD. GAMZEE'S DEAD.  
CG: YOU'RE NOT GAMZEE BECAUSE GAMZEE'S DEAD AND FUCK YOU FOR PLAYING WITH ME LIKE THIS.  
TC: MoThErFuCk, kArKaT, I AlReAdY AlL WeNt tHrOuGh tHiS WiTh tErEzI, I DoN't wAnT To hAvE To dO It wItH yOu.  
TC: gO AnD AsK Me sOmEtHiNg? yOu'Re gOoD At bEiNg sMaRt aNd tHiNkInG Of sHiT, ThInK Of sOmE MiRaClE YoUr fLuShGiRl wOuLdN't kNoW ShIt aBoUt.  
CG: ...  
CG: FINE  
CG: I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHY I'M FUCKING PLAYING ALONG  
CG: HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL FOR FUCKING ASSHOLES I GUESS  
CG: BUT WHAT DID YOU GET ME FOR LAST TWELTH PERIGREE'S?  
TC: HaHaHaHa bRo, i aLl uP AnD GoT YoU ThE CoMpLEtE MoThErFuCkInG BoXeD SeT oF HaTeFrIeNdS, AnD YoU WeRe hElLa tIckEd oFf bEcAuSe yOu mOtHeRfUcKiNg tOld aT Me yOu wAnTeD SoMe oThEr sHoW BuT I FoRgOt wHiCh oNe aNd i kInDa tHoUgHt hAtEfRiEnDs lOoKeD LiKe a rOmCoM OnLy bUt iT WaS A Tv sHoW InStEaD.  
TC: bUT ThEn yOu wAtChEd aLl tEn sEaSoNs aNyHoW.  
TC: AnD wHeN YoU FiNiShEd yOu uP AnD MoThErFuCkInG TrOlLeD Me iN ThE MiDdLe oF ThE AfTeRnOoN To gEt yOuR RaNt oN BeCaUsE YoU ThOuGhT TrOlL RoSs aN TrOlL RaChEl eNdeD Up iN tHe wRoNg qUaDraNt aT ThE MoTheRfUckInG EnD oF tHe sErIes.  
CG: OH MY FUCKING GOD  
TC: sO I GueSs mAyBe yOu fOuNd iT In YoU To aPpReCiAtE ThAt iT WaS KiNd oF A MiRaCle eVeN iF iT WaSn'T WhAt YoU WaNtEd tO Be gEtTiNg?  
CG: OH MY FUCKING GOD AND ALSO ALL THE VARIOUS GODLIKE FIGURES AND DEMIGODS I HAVE HAD THE QUESTIONABLE HONOR OF ENCOUNTERING IN MY SHORT LIFE  
TC: GeTtInG YoUr bElIeF In mY SeLf oN, BeSt mOthErFuCkInG FriEnD?  
CG: HOLY FUCK, I KIND OF HAVE TO, I'D BE ENOUGH OF AN ASSHOLE TO TELL OTHER PEOPLE ABOUT THAT BUT NOT YOU  
CG: DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA  
CG: DO YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA AT ALL WHAT I'VE GONE THROUGH?  
CG: I WAS LITERALLY RAGE-VOMITING ON PEOPLE THAT FIRST WEEK I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD.  
CG: I MEAN I KNOW I SOMETIMES MISUSE THE WORD LITERALLY AND GET A LITTLE CARRIED AWAY WITH SHITTY METAPHORS BUT NEITHER OF THOSE THINGS APPLIES IN THIS INSTANCE.  
CG: I WAS ACTUALLY SO FUCKING UPSET THAT I EMPTIED MY BILE-SACK ON SOMEONE.  
CG: AND BY SOMEONE I MEAN NEPETA.  
CG: I HOPE YOU'RE FUCKING HAPPY.  
TC: aWwWwW MoThErFuCK, KaRkAT, YoU GoTtA KnOw tHaT AlL MaKeS Me pReTtY MuCh tHe ExAcT MoThErFuCkInG OpPoSiTe oF HaPpY.  
TC: AcTuAlLy iT MaKeS Me aLl pReTtY FuCkInG BuMmEd :o( :o( :o(  
CG: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK  
CG: I AM THE WORST FUCKING MOIRAIL EVER  
CG: IT IS ME  
CG: I AM SO SORRY GAMZEE, I AM SUCH A FUCKING FAILURE, I FIND OUT YOU'RE ALIVE AND THE FIRST THING I DO IS UPSET YOU  
CG: THERE IS NO REASON WHATSOEVER I SHOULD HAVE JUST TOLD YOU THAT  
TC: nAh bRo iTs cOoL YoU GoTtA Be SaYiNg wHaTs oN YoUr mOthErFuCkInG HeArT  
TC: AnD DiAmOnD AnD SpAdE AnD ClUb i GuEsS :o)  
TC: i MoThErFucKiNg gOt mY UnDerStAnD On aLl bOuT ThAt  
CG: FUCK THAT, THERE IS A SPECIAL SECTION OF HELL RESERVED FOR PEOPLE LIKE ME.  
CG: I AM AN AWFUL EXCUSE FOR A TROLL.  
TC: KaRkAt, pAlEbRo  
CG: FUCK FUCK FUCK  
TC: karkat, stop it  
TC: SHUT THE MOTHERFUCK UP FOR LIKE TWO SECONDS, WOULD YOU?  
CG: ...OH SHIT  
TC: i mean i all want to help you get your motherfucking chill on  
TC: BUT MOTHERFUCKING CHILL IS IN PRETTY FUCKING SHORT SUPPLY UP IN HERE  
TC: so you gotta calm the fuck down for yourself, aight?  
TC: BECAUSE I SURE AS MOTHERFUCK AIN'T UP TO IT


	13. That Part The Basic Schoolfeeding Seems to Have Left Out

There's a long moment where the cursor blinks, unreadable, in the bottom of the screen, and Gamzee hardly dares breathe. He suddenly becomes aware that he's 'voodooing again as he notices Terezi shrinking from him, and tries to pull it back. The electric feeling in his horns recedes, but the blind girl next to him doesn't seem to be relaxing much.

CG: TEREZI, IF YOU ARE STILL READING OVER HIS SHOULDER, GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE.  
CG: GAMZEE, IF SHE'S THERE BUT NOT READING, TELL HER I SAID TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE.

As soon as she catches a whiff of the grey words, Terezi's all but vaulting over the desk, putting the piece of furniture between herself and Gamzee and standing with her mouth half-open, as if to better taste the air. Gamzee frowns at the screen, tries to collect himself.

TC: i aIn'T GoNnA HuRt hEr, bRo, yOu gOtTa aLl tRuSt iN ThAt.   
CG: YOU JUST CHANGED YOUR QUIRK, FUCKASS.  
CG: WHAT, DO YOU THINK I DON'T FUCKING REMEMBER WHAT THAT MEANS?  
CG: DO YOU THINK I DON'T REMEMBER WHAT FUCKING HAPPENED LAST TIME YOU WENT OFF ENOUGH TO STOP WITH THE FUCKING MIGRAINE-INDUCING ALTCAPS?   
TC: It aIn'T ThAt bAd tHiS TiMe.   
CG: IS SHE GONE?  
CG: DID TEREZI FUCKING LEAVE OR IS SHE STILL SITTING THERE LIKE AN IDIOT?

Gamzee glances up, finds Terezi standing warily by the door, a dragon-tipped cane in one hand. He almost shrugs before remembering the gesture will mean absolutely nothing to Karkat, who is nowhere nearby.

TC: sHe'S aLl uP AnD ArMeD AnD ShE's pUt hErSeLf bEtWeEn mE AnD ThE DoOr  
TC: BuT ReAlLy bEsT bRo i'M NoT GoNnA HuRt mY SiStEr hErE   
CG: I WASN'T SURE WHETHER YOU'D HURT ANYONE BEFORE EITHER  
CG: AND GUESS WHAT? YOU FUCKING DID!  
CG: IF IT WERE PHYSICALLY POSSIBLE I WOULD BE SHOOSHPAPPING YOU WITHIN AN INCH OF YOUR LIFE RIGHT NOW.  
CG: BUT I CAN'T SO FUCKING HUMOR ME WHEN I WANT TO MAKE SURE MY MATESPRIT ISN'T IN THE LINE OF FUCKING FIRE, OK?   
TC: aLrIgHt, aLrIgHt

"Chica, he wants you getting your leaving way on," Gamzee says aloud, reluctantly. "All the way outta here where I can't be grabbing at you or nothing."

She lifts her chin a little, defiant, relentlessly cheerful. "I'm not scared to stay."

Gamzee laughs, although the sound comes out harder and dryer than he really expected it to. "Didn't say you were, sis, though if you ain't been getting your fright on it's a motherfucking miracle. I know I mess with people's sponges lately when I get all upset in here," he replies.

Terezi hesitates, one hand on the handle of the door.

"I'll be just outside, ok?" she finally says. "Come find me when you're done... when Karkat thinks it's safe."

"Will do," he promises, and she goes.

Gamzee returns his attention to the screen to find a backlog of grey text has built up.

CG: THANK YOU.  
CG: IS SHE GONE?  
CG: GAMZEE?  
CG: GAMZEE, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, WHAT'S GOING ON?  
CG: GAMZEE ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW, THIS IS AN OFFICIAL REQUEST FROM YOUR MOIRAIL WHO ALSO HAPPENS TO BE A BADASS REVOLUTIONARY LEADER  
CG: REALLY, DUDE, I CAN'T TELL IF YOU'RE BRUTALLY MURDERING SOMEONE OR JUST ZONED OUT. IT'S REALLY FUCKING HARD TO TELL WITH YOU SOMETIMES.  
CG: ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU WON'T FUCKING ANSWER.   
TC: WhOa tHeRe bEsT FrIeNd, jUsT HaD To tAlK ThE FiNe bLiNdSiStEr aRoUnD A LiTtLe.  
TC: sHe'S Up aNd gOnE OuTsIdE NoW, EvEn iF I GoT It iN My tHiNkPaN To gO AfTeR HeR ThErEs lIkE A ZiLlIoN LeGiSlAcErAtOrS OuT ThErE.   
CG: OK. OK, GOOD.   
TC: :o)   
CG: FIRST THING FIRST  
CG: GAMZEE, ARE YOU SOBER RIGHT NOW?  
CG: YOU SOUND LIKE YOU MIGHT BE.   
TC: YeAh, i kInD Of iNcReDiBlY Am   
CG: HOW SOON CAN YOU GET MORE SOPOR? THE STRONG BAKED KIND, NOT JUST STUFF FROM THE RECUPERACOON.   
TC: uH, AbOuT ThAt  
TC: NeVeR?   
CG: SHIT GAMZEE THIS IS NOT THE TIME TO GO INTO YOUR "IT ROTS YOU" BULLSHIT AGAIN  
CG: THE DAMAGE IS FUCKING DONE   
TC: i kNoW, BrO, I WaNt a mOtHeRfUcKiNg pIe sO BaD, BuT ThEy aIn'T ExAcTlY DoWn wItH ThAt sHiT In tHe sUbJuGgLaToRs.   
CG: FUCK, I SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT OF THAT. SORRY.   
TC: AnD He'S BeEn pReTtY MoThErFuCkInG ClEaR AlL AbOuT HoW I SpEcIFiCaLlY DoN't gEt nOnE, I EvEn gOt cUt bAcK On mY MoThErFuCkInG CoOn dOsAgE.   
CG: ARE YOU DOING OK? I MEAN, FUCK, OBVIOUSLY YOU AREN'T, YOU SOUND FUCKING MISERABLE. BUT NO VOICES IN YOUR HEAD OR HOMICIDAL RAGES OR ANYTHING?   
TC: fEeLiNg eVeRyThInG's HaRd. :o( hOw aRe yOu sO MoThErFuCkInG AnGrY AlL ThE TiMe? iT WeArS Me tHe mOtHeRfUcK OuT.   
CG: OH MAN  
CG: I THINK I UNDERSTAND WHY NEPETA'S ALWAYS PULLING THAT FUCKING IRRITATING ROLEPLAY SHIT.  
CG: *HUGS HIS MOIRAIL*   
TC: :o) MiRaClEs   
CG: DON'T GET TOO USED TO IT. IT KIND OF TAKES A SPECIAL FUCKING CASE TO MAKE ME NOT ONLY COMPLETELY ABANDON MY DIGNITY BUT DENY ITS VERY EXISTANCE.   
TC: yOu kNoW yOu lIkE hUgS ToO, PaLeBrO  
TC: BuT YeAh, nO, I DoN't tHiNk i bEeN gEtTiNg cRaZy uP In hErE. AnD ThE OnLy mOtHeRfUcKeR WhAt i rEaLlY BeEn rAgInG AlL ThAt mUcH At iS My bLoCkMaTe bUt wE GoT OuRsElVeS A BiTcHiNg fIeRcE AuSpIsTiCe nOw sO It'S AlL ChIlL.   
CG: WAIT YOU FILLED YOUR ASHEN QUADRANT?  
CG: HOW WAS THIS NOT THE FIRST FUCKING THING YOU TOLD ME?  
CG: NOW I WANT YOU TO COPY THIS DOWN AND PRINT IT OUT AND GIVE IT TO YOUR AUSPISTICE:   
TC: wHoA, YoU bEeN gEtTiNg yOuR MoTheRfuCkInG TyPe oN fOr A LoNg TiMe, wHaT KiNd oF MirAcLe aRe yOu eVeN CoOkInG Up?   
CG: DEAR FUCKASS, IT HAS COME TO MY ATTENTION THAT YOU HAVE PUT YOURSELF IN CHARGE OF KEEPING MY MOIRAIL FROM TEARING SOMEONE'S FACE OFF. NOT THAT THIS SHOULD BE ALL THAT FUCKING HARD WITH GAMZEE THE VAST MAJORITY OF THE TIME, BUT WHATEVER. I JUST THOUGHT YOU SHOULD BE AWARE THAT IF YOU LET THE FUCKING IDIOT GET HURT I WILL BE FORCED TO TAKE TIME OUT OF MY BUSY SCHEDULE OF MAKING THE UNIVERSE A LESS TERRIBLE PLACE FOR ALL TROLLKIND IN ORDER TO MESSILY KILL YOU IN A MANNER INVOLVING AT LEAST THREE VITAL ORGANS, AT LEAST TWO OF THEM YOURS. UNLESS I CAN THINK OF A WORSE FATE ON THE WAY THERE, WHICH I MIGHT, BECAUSE I CAN BE PRETTY FUCKING CREATIVE. WELCOME TO THE FAMILY, FUCKER. SIGNED, KARKAT VANTAS, UNSIGNED, 69   
TC: HaHa, bRo, i aIn'T GoNnA GiVe tHaT To aRsAst   
CG: WHY THE FUCK NOT?   
TC: bEcAuSe yOu'Re a mOtHeRfUcKiNg aNtI-ImPeRiAl rEvOlUtIonArY FuGiTiVe, aNd hE's a... I'm pReTtY SuRe aT LeAsT ThAt hE's a dEvOuT fUnAmBuLiSt, aNd aLsO He'S A MoThErFuCkInG SuBjUgGlAtOr iN TrAiNiNg. i AiN't lEtTiNg yOu cAtCh hIs aTtEnTiOn lIkE ThAt, pAlEbRo.   
CG: I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT A FUNAMBULIST IS, GAMZEE.   
TC: TiGhTrOpE WaLkEr. nOtHeR BrAnCh oF CiRcUs cUlTiSt. pReTtY MoThErFuCkInG InTiMiDaTiNg, mOrE sEriOuS ThAn uS ClOwNs aNd rEaLlY FuCkInG NiMbLe.   
CG: WAIT, HE'S SOME KIND OF CIRCUS CULTIST THAT MAKES OTHER CIRCUS FREAKS NERVOUS, AND HE'S THE MEDIATOR? WHAT THE FUCK'S YOUR OTHER ASHFILL LIKE?   
TC: a MoThErFuCkInG PriSsY WhInY BiTcH.  
TC: BuT I GoTtA AlL Be sHaRiNg a mOtHeRfUcKiNg ReSpItEBlOcK WiTh hEr fOr tHe wHoLe fOrSeEaBlE FuTuRe aNd sHiT So i gOtTa pUt uP WiTh SePhaR. AnD ArSaSt cAn sHoUt uS BoTh dOwN.  
TC: oR PrObAbLy cUt uS BoTh dOwN If hE HaD To.   
CG: HUH.  
CG: WELL, I GUESS THAT DOES SOUND LIKE IT MIGHT BE FUNCTIONAL.  
CG: PRETTY FUCKING FUNCTIONAL, ACTUALLY.  
CG: GOOD LUCK, BUDDY.   
TC: :o) hOnK HoNk   
CG: EARLIER, YOU SAID SOMEONE IN PARTICULAR TOLD YOU YOU COULDN'T HAVE SOPOR. WHO THE FUCK WAS IT?   
TC: ThE GrAnD MoThErFuCkInG HiGhBlOoD.  
TC: He'S PrEtTy mUcH ThE BiGgEsT MoTheRfUckInG DeAl oN ThIs hErE sHiP, AlL CoMmAnDiNg tHe SuBjUgGlaToRs tO KeEp eVeRyOnE In lInE AnD ShIt.   
CG: I DO KNOW WHO THE GRAND HIGHBLOOD IS, GAMZEE, I DIDN'T COMPLETELY ROT OUT MY SCHOOLFEEDING.   
TC: AlSo hE's mY AnCeStoR.   
CG: OK THAT PART, THAT PART THE BASIC SCHOOLFEEDING SEEMS TO HAVE LEFT OUT FOR SOME REASON.  
CG: THE GRAND HIGHBLOOD IS REALLY YOUR ANCESTOR?   
TC: wElL He'S GoT My cOlOr AnD My mOtHeRfUcKiNg sYmBoL AnD KiNd oF JuSt lOoKs lIkE A OlDeR ScaRiEr Me?   
CG: WOW   
TC: AnD FaR As I cAn tElL He'S AlL MoThErFuCkInG AmUsEd bY HaViNg mE ArOuNd sO LoNg aS I DoN't fUcK Up oR NoThInG.   
CG: AS LONG AS YOU DON'T FUCK UP? GAMZEE, YOU DO NOTHING IN LIFE THAT ISN'T FUCKING UP.  
CG: HAS HE HURT YOU?   
TC: nOtHiNg I dIdN't AlReAdY HeAl uP FrOm.  
TC: I mEaN mOsTlY He jUsT ShOuTs a lOt.  
TC: i OnLy eVeR ReAlLy gOt bEaTeN On tHe oNe tImE WhEn I cUlLeD LaZaPi'S FrIeNd aNd He tOlD At mE NoT To kIlL PeOplE WhAt hE WaNtS SoMeOnE ElSe tO KiLl.   
CG: YOU FUCKING DID WHAT?  
CG: SLOW DOWN I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT.   
TC: He WaS ThIs gReEnBlOoD LaZaPi kNeW WhEn ShE WaS A KiD AnD ShE JuSt rAn iNtO HiM In tHe sHiP AnD ThOuGhT ThEy sHoUlD Be cAtChInG Up aNd ShIt so sHe uP AnD InViTeD HiM BaCk wItH Us aNd tHeN ThE Gh gOt pIsSeD oFf bEcAuSe hE DiDn'T WaNt nO MoThErFuCkInG GrEeNbloOd hAnGiNg aRoUnD ThE SuBjuGgLaToR QuArTeRs sO He  
TC: he told her to cull her bro  
TC: AND SHE OBVIOUSLY COULDN'T MOTHERFUCKING DO IT  
TC: lazapi's this sweet little chica what likes to draw, she's way friendly and shit  
TC: AND SHE DON'T GO AROUND MOTHERFUCKING CULLING PEOPLE SHE LIKES  
TC: and i could tell if someone didn't do nothing like what he told her the gh was going to all get his slaughtertainment on with both of em  
TC: BUT SHE COULDN'T FUCKING DO IT  
TC: i could  
TC: I COULD CULL THE BROTHER WHO TALKED TO ME EVERY DAY WHETHER I HAD ANYTHING TO SAY OR NOT, WHO ACTUALLY MOTHERFUCKING WANTED TO HEAR FROM ME ALL THE FUCKING TIME AND TRIED TO HELP ME OUT EVEN IF HIS ADVICE WAS MOTHERFUCKING TERRIBLE AND EVEN THOUGH HE ALREADY HAD A MOIRAIL  
TC: i could cull the nicest little sister what ever sunk her teeth in an animal, i could taunt her with my own blood and kill her right there next to her fucking moirail's corpse.  
TC: SO I COULD CULL THIS GUY I NEVER EVEN MET BEFORE AND I MOTHERFUCKING DID  
TC: and i couldn't figure out if i did the right motherfucking thing because lazapi was alive but she hated me and she kind of wished she motherfucking wasn't alive for a while i think  
TC: AND THE GH WAS ANGRY AS ALL MOTHERFUCKING HELL BUT NOT QUITE ANGRY ENOUGH TO CULL ME SOMEHOW  
TC: and  
TC: NOBODY  
TC: else  
TC: FUCKING  
TC: cared

Gamzee can't type anymore, can't think of any other words to put the problem into an explanation, glaring at the screen. Then Karkat's text starts showing up again, and Gamzee lets out the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding; the knot in his stomache that he'd come to ignore for the past week and a half begins to unravel.

CG: SHHHHH, GAMZEE, IT'S OK.  
CG: THERE WASN'T ANY RIGHT ANSWER AND THE LEAST WRONG ANSWER STILL HURT SO FUCKING BAD AND I PITY YOU SO MUCH FOR THAT.  
CG: THIS? THIS IS WHY I AM TRYING TO CHANGE EVERY FUCKING THING, BECAUSE EVERY FUCKING THING IS SO FUCKED UP AND YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE TO MAKE DECISIONS LIKE THIS. NOBODY SHOULD HAVE TO MAKE DECISIONS LIKE THIS.  
CG: YOU DID THE BEST YOU COULD.  
CG: YOU DID FUCKING AMAZING.   
TC: doesn't fucking feel like it   
CG: THAT'S BECAUSE THE UNIVERSE IS AN ASS, GAMZEE.  
CG: LIKE HOW KANAYA BRED THAT FROG, THE GUYS BEFORE US HAD THEIR SPACE PLAYER SPEND LIKE A FUCKING PERIGREE ECTOBIOLOGICALLY ENGINEERING THE GOD ASS AND THAT ASS IS OUR UNIVERSE.  
CG: BUT REALLY, THE WHOLE SITUATION WAS MASSIVELY UNFAIR AND YOU GOT YOURSELF AND YOUR FRIEND THROUGH OK, RIGHT?   
TC: FOR A CERTAIN MOTHERFUCKING VALUE OF OK  
TC: i guess   
CG: I MEAN I DON'T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO TELL YOU, EXCEPT THAT I PITY YOU AND  
CG: WELL  
CG: I REALLY FUCKING WANT TO GET YOU THE FUCK OUT OF THERE, GAMZEE  
CG: I DON'T KNOW HOW YET BUT I AM GETTING YOU BACK. I FUCKING PROMISE.   
TC: THAT AIN'T MOTHERFUCKING HAPPENING, BEST FRIEND   
CG: LIKE HELL IT'S NOT  
CG: I AM A TOTAL BADASS, GAMZEE. IF I WANT MY MOIRAIL OUT OF DANGER I AM GETTING MY MOIRAIL OUT OF DANGER.  
CG: ALSO IF YOU'RE SERIOUSLY GOING TO ARGUE WITH ME YOU'VE GOT TO CALM THE FUCK DOWN BECAUSE I DON'T DISCUSS SERIOUS BUSINESS WITH HYSTERICAL GRUBS   
TC: what are you saying, motherfucker?   
CG: THE TYPING QUIRK, IDIOT.  
CG: TAKE A MOMENT TO COLLECT YOURSELF IF YOU NEED TO.  
CG: YOU'RE CLEARLY STILL FLAILING TOO HARD TO FIND YOUR FUCKING SHIFT KEY. CONSIDER YOURSELF PAPPED.   
TC: SHIT  
TC: tHiS aNy MoThErFuCkInG BeTtEr?   
CG: YES. AS MUCH AS IT PAINS ME TO SAY THIS, GAMZEE, YOUR SEIZURE-INSPIRING ALTERNATING CAPITALIZATION IS A RELIEF.   
TC: I AiM To mOtHeRfUcKiNg pLeAsE.  
TC: eXcEpT ThAt gEtTiNg mE OuTtA HeRe aT ThIs pOiNt wOuLd bE A BiGgEr mIrAcLe tHaN We rEaLlY CaN AlL SeT OuR MoThErFuCkInG SiGhTs oN, bRo.  
TC: SoRrY.   
CG: OK ONE: EVEN IF YOU WERE IN INESCAPABLE PERIL, YOU WOULD NOT GET TO APOLOGISE FOR IT, THAT'S JUST STUPID. AND TWO: WHY THE FUCK NOT?   
TC: yOu rEmEmBeR WhY I AiN't tHeRe wItH YoU In tHe mOtHeRfUcKiNg fIrSt pLaCe?   
CG: LET ME SEE, I SEEM TO REMEMBER SOMETHING ABOUT YOU BEING A COMPLETE FUCKING MARTYR IN THE STUPIDEST WAY POSSIBLE.  
CG: AND COMPLETEY TAKING ADVATAGE OF THE WAY I WAS ON EDGE AND NOT SURE I COULD PULL OFF THIS WHOLE REBELLION THING, IN ORDER TO GO DO YOUR FUCKING MARTYR BIT.  
CG: WHY THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE SO IMPORTANT YOU CAN'T SLIP AWAY? THAT WAS THE WORST PART, WHEN WE STARTED FINDING MID-TO-HIGH DESERTERS.   
TC: AnY InDiGoS?   
CG: WELL NO NOT QUITE AS HIGH AS YOU.  
CG: BUT MY POINT STILL STANDS, IF YOU'D SAID SOMETHING SOONER WE COULD HAVE DONE SOMETHING. I DON'T KNOW, FAKED YOUR FUCKING DEATH OR SOMETHING. BUT NO, YOU HAD TO LET ME THINK YOU WERE GOING TO COME, AND THEN SPRING THE "OH WAIT I'M GOING TO GO GET CULLED TO PROTECT YOU" GARBAGE ON ME AT THE LAST SECOND.   
TC: mAyBe  
TC: BuT KaRkAt, yOu aIn'T DoNe aNyThInG YeT WhAt cAuGhT ThE Gh'S AtTeNtIoN AnD I KnOw tHaT AiN't a mIrAcLe tHaT CaN LaSt fOrEvEr iF YoU'rE GoNnA PuLl oFf tHaT RevOlUtIoN  
TC: bUt iF YoU CoMe gEt mE ThOuGh hE's gOnNa gEt hIs nOtiCe oN  
TC: AnD mAyBe yOu bE AlL ReAdY To dOdGe dRoNeS AnD AlL BuT ArE YoU ReAdDy tO DeAl wItH ThE GrAnD HiGhBlOoD?   
CG: YES.   
TC: mOtHeRfUcKiNg nO YoU AiN't, bRo.   
CG: IF THAT'S WHAT IT TAKES TO CLEAN UP THIS MESS, YES I AM.   
TC: YoU CaN't fIgHt eVeRyThInG AlLs aT OnCe, pAlEbRo, hOw mAnY TiMeS I Up aNd tOlD YoU ThAt? yOu gOtTa cHoOsE YoUr bAtTlEs.   
CG: I AM.  
CG: I'M CHOOSING THIS ONE.   
TC: :o( kArKaT He'S LiKe a ThOuSaNd sWeEpS OlD YoU ThInK NoOnE EvEr tRiEd mOtHeRfUcKiN tAkiNg hIm dOwN BeFoRe?   
CG: I EXILED THE BLACK QUEEN.   
TC: I AiN't gOoD At tElLiNg fOlKs nOt tO Do sHiT BuT PlEaSe?   
CG: FUCK  
CG: YOU CAN'T JUST ASK ME TO FUCKING LEAVE YOU THERE, GAMZEE.  
CG: BUT I'LL GIVE YOU A HEADS UP BEFORE I DO ANYTHING DRASTIC.   
TC: :o(   
CG: TAKE IT OR FUCKING LEAVE IT, GAMZEE.   
TC: :o(  
TC: rUn ShIT By tAvRoS ToO, He'S GoT A BeTtEr iDeA WhAt'S ReAlLy bE DrAsTiC ThAn yOu.   
CG: OH FUCK YOU.   
TC: TrYiNg tO ReScUe mE Be pReTtY uSeLEsS If yOu gEt cUlLeD WhIlE YoU DoInG It..  
TC: i dO WaNnA CoMe hElP OuT WiTh tHaT MiRaClE YoU AlL Be cAlLiNg a ReSiStAnCe bUt i'D RaThEr ThErE StiLl bE A NuBbY MiRaClE TrOlL tO Be iN ChArGe.  
TC: AnD A ReSiStAnCe fOr hIm tO Be aLl eXcItEd aBoUt lEaDiNg.   
CG: FUCK I HATE IT WHEN YOU START SOUNDING REASONABLE.  
CG: WHO SAID YOU COULD BE REASONABLE?   
TC: mIrAClE Of mOiRaLlEgIaNcE, bRo.  
TC: MoThErFuCkInG MaSh uS Up aN We bE OnE FuNcTiOnInG TrOlL! :o)   
CG: NEVER INVOKE THAT IMAGERY AGAIN   
TC: <>   
CG: YOU'RE OBNOXIOUS.   
TC: yOu kEeP SaYiN ThAt sO I GuEsS It mUsT Be A mOtHeRfUcKiN FaCt.

Gamzee jumps a little as the door opens, and Terezi sticks her head in. "Hey, I don't really want to cut you guys off," she hisses, "but I'm pretty sure Sollux can't keep the connection open _all_ night. Any chance I might get a turn soon?"

"Couple more minutes?" Gamzee asks, a little bit of a whine in his voice. "I'll tell Karkat you wanna talk to him."

"Thanks, you're a dear," she replies, flashing a wide smile, and comes to sit down at the desk again. Gamzee tells himself he doesn't mind the careful space she leaves between them.

CG: OF COURSE IT'S A MOTHERFUCKING FACT, WOULD I LIE TO YOU?  
CG: ...GAMZEE?  
CG: YOU ZONE OUT THERE, DUDE?  
CG: DO YOU EVEN ZONE OUT WHEN YOU'RE SOBER? I DON'T EVEN KNOW.   
TC: hAhA SoRrY.  
TC: TeReZi'S BaCk, sHe'S BeInG AlL AnXiOuS AnD ShIt To tAlK To YoU?   
CG: SHIT, WE ARE KIND OF MONOPOLIZING THIS THING AREN'T WE?  
CG: OK, LIST OFF THE TOP THREE THINGS YOU THINK I SHOULD KNOW ABOUT THAT HAVEN'T COME UP, AND I'LL DO THE SAME.  
CG: AND THEN WE CAN LET TEREZI E-SLOBBER ON ME FOR A WHILE.   
TC: cOoL :o) YoU Go fIrSt, yOu aIn'T HaRdLy tOlD Me nOtHiN

"We're wrapping shit up, chica," Gamzee says aloud, not looking up from the screen as Karkat's text appears. "Just a little while longer, 'kay?"

"Yeah, sure, I can be patient!" Terezi does not sound particularly patient. "I've talked to him more recently than you have, after all."

CG: OK ONE: WE'VE GOT LIKE THIRTY OTHER DESERTERS WE'VE FOUND, INCLUDING A FEW FROM LAST SWEEP, MAYBE HALF THAT NUMBER OF SIGNLESSIST KIDS WHO KEEP WANDERING THROUGH, AND A HANDFUL OF SUFFERISTS.  
CG: AND SOME OF THE ADULTS - AND I USE THE TERM LOOSELY - ARE SOME PERMUTATION OF WAY TOO RELIGIOUSLY INTERESTED IN MY ANCESTOR, TOO.   
TC: HaHa, sOuNdS LiKe yOu gOt yOuRsElF A PrOpEr lItTlE FoRcE GoIn tHeRe   
CG: TWO: I THINK I MIGHT HAVE TRIED TO KICK A FEW PEOPLE OUT OF THE GROUP FOR TRYING TO TALK TO ME ABOUT YOU WHEN I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD.  
CG: I SAY TRIED BECAUSE I'M PRETTY SURE SOLLUX AND NEPETA WERE GOING BEHIND MY BACK AND TELLING THEM TO STICK AROUND ANYWAY.   
TC: yOu gOtTa kEeP A GrIp aLl oN YoUr tEmPeR, BrO :o(   
CG: YEAH I KNOW.  
CG: THREE: TAVROS HAS BEEN ON THE CRUTCHES MORE LATELY, AND HE KEPT HIS SHIT TOGETHER A LOT BETTER THAN I DID, EMOTIONALLY. AND HE'S BEEN REALLY HELPFUL WITH HIS BEASTMASTER SHIT.   
TC: :o)   
CG: I'M NOT SURE WHERE HE IS RIGHT NOW BUT I SENT SOMEONE TO FIND HIM AS SOON AS I WAS CONVINCED IT WAS YOU.   
TC: :oD   
CG: YEAH, I THOUGHT YOU'D LIKE THAT. OK, YOUR TURN. WHAT'S BEEN GOING ON AT YOUR END?   
TC: ShIiIiIt wHaT Do I wAnNa tElL aT YoU?  
TC: i'M GeTtInG BeTtEr wItH ThE ChUcKlEvOoDoOs, tHaTs tHe fEaR-MoJo i gOt, aNd i'M KiNdA GeTtInG bEtTeR At nOt uSiNg eM WhEn i dOn'T wAnNa   
CG: THAT IS REALLY FUCKING GREAT, I MEAN IT. GOOD JOB, DUDE.

"Waiting," Terezi drawls, and Gamzee flaps a hand at her.

"Almost done, sister."

TC: AnD  
TC: iT Is tHe bEsT BrIgHtEsT MiRaClE Up iN HeRe tHaT I gEt tO Go tO CaRnIvAl eVeRy mOrNiNg, lIfE's bEaUtiFuL LiKe tHaT SoMeTiMeS. :o) EvEn wHeN iT SeEmS ReAlLy sHiTtY, RiGhT? MiRaClEs aLl oVeR ThE PlAcE.  
CG: YOU ARE MAKING ME REGRET TAKING AN INTEREST IN YOUR LIFE, GAMZEE  
TC: AnD  
TC: vRiSkA AlL Up aNd sTaRtEd a rIoT aNd aBsCoNdEd bAcK WhEn wE FiRsT GoT HeRe, aN LaSt i hEaRd sHe sToLe a cLiPpEr iN tHe InNeR ReAcHeS. gH AiN't fIgUrEd iT's hEr, oN AcCoUnT Of sHe gOt wInGs aNd nOt a mOthErFuCkInG RoBoT ArM.  
CG: IF IT WERE ANYONE ELSE I'D SAY WHAT THE FUCK, BUT SINCE ITS VRISKA I'LL JUST SHAKE MY HEAD SADLY AND SAY WE SHOULD HAVE ALL FUCKING EXPECTED THIS ALL A FUCKING LONG.  
TC: hAhA yEah  
TC: ShoUlD I PuT TeReZi On?  
CG: MIGHT AS WELL. IT IS SO GOOD TO TALK TO YOU, THOUGH. SO GOOD, YOU PITIFUL WRECK. I FEEL SO MUCH BETTER NOW THAT I KNOW YOU'RE NOT DEAD.  
TC: aWwWwW BrO, I PiTy yOu tOo. bE GoOd tO YoUrSeLf, hEy?  
CG: YOU BE CAREFUL, GAMZEE. <>  
TC: <>  
 **\-----** user **terminallyCapricious** logged off

Gamzee pushes the husktop over to Terezi, who all but pounces on it, and waits, resting his chin in his hands.

Terezi hammers against the keyboard as if it has done something to personally offend her, occasionally leaning forward to lick the screen. She hasn't changed, he has to reflect. Still the same hard-cornered girl, a little too direct, casually confrontational. He's a little surprised, and then a little surprised that he's surprised; it's only been a little less than a perigree, only a matter of weeks since they were children on the surface of Alternia. There's no reason to think that she would have changed much.

Except, he realizes, that he has.

Of course, the majority of that is the sobriety, isn't it? He thinks quicker, pieces things together more readily... smiles less. He's not sure he likes that. He thinks he used the word "miracle" more times in that chat with Karkat than he has in the entire week previous.

He tries to figure things out more often - he can less often afford blissful ignorance. Gamzee thinks he might be beginning to fill out a little, physically, now that he's been regularly eating something other than pie for several weeks. He spends more time and effort on personal hygiene, but less care, he realizes, on other aspects of his appearance.

These days, he puts his paint on more or less by reflex. He wonders if it would be possible to change his design without noticing - surely not? He'd have noticed if he did his face wrong. Someone would have said something. Right?

And now his horns have begun to tingle, and he fights it back with a slightly guilty glance at Terezi, who hunches over the keyboard. He can't tell whether the defensive set of her shoulders is a response to him or to something Karkat is saying or simply her default posture.

Yeah, he's getting better at not using the chucklevoodoos when he doesn't want to, but that wasn't even an issue when he was on sopor.

Boredom was also not generally an issue when he was on sopor, and he feels a little guilty for being bored. He just got finished talking to Karkat after weeks and weeks apart, right? And now he's waiting to see if he can talk to Tavros as well. But right now, nothing much is happening except inside his own head, and he's bored, and he knows he shouldn't be.

It's motherfucking disrespectful to the universe to be bored. Any Circus Cultist knows that.

Finally - or maybe it's not so long, Gamzee's perception of time is still for shit, apparently that's not a sopor thing - Terezi looks up. "So, still want to talk to Tavros?"

" _Motherfuck_ , yes," Gamzee says, almost snatching the husktop from her hands as she hands it over.

 **\-----** user **terminallyCapricious** logged onto connection **Vanta2Ii2ADouchbag**  
CG: THAT WAS QUICK.  
CG: DON'T FLIP THE FUCK OUT, WE JUST NEED TO GET TAVROS SET UP ON THIS END  
CG: ALSO SOLLUX SAYS HE'S NOT SURE HOW MUCH LONGER THE CONNECTION WILL STAY IN PHASE, WHATEVER THE FUCK THAT ACTUALLY MEANS, SO YOU GUYS MIGHT WANT TO KEEP THAT IN MIND BEFORE YOU START IN ON A BORDERLINE PORNOGRAPHIC RAP BATTLE OR WHATEVER THE FUCK IT IS YOU TWO DO WHEN YOU'RE CHATTING.  
CG: I ALREADY TOLD TEREZI BUT WE SHOULD BE ABLE TO CONNECT AGAIN IN A COUPLE OF WEEKS. SHE'S KIND OF IN CHARGE OF ORGANIZING THIS SHIT ON YOUR END, SO TALK TO HER ABOUT WHEN AND WHERE TO MEET.  
TC: cAn dO, MoThErFuCkEr.  
CG: OK, I'M OUT. TALK TO YOU LATER, GAMZEE. <>:  
TC: PrOmIsE?  
CG: OF COURSE I PROMISE, IDIOT.   
**\-----** user **carcinoGeneticist** has logged off  
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 **\-----** user **adiosToreador** logged onto connection **Vanta2Ii2ADouchbag**  
AT: gAMZEE?  
TC: sHiT, YeS, TaVbRo  
AT: tHIS IS, uM,  
AT: tHAT IS,  
AT: i AM REALLY, hAPPY TO HEAR FROM YOU, aND ALSO THAT YOU ARE NOT DEAD, uM, aFTER ALL, }:)  
TC: I aIn'T GoTtA PrOvE It'S Me? yOu bElIeVe i'M AlL Up iN ThE LiViNg?  
AT: i'M , uM, aCTUALLY NOT SURE? bUT kARKAT WOULDN'T JOKE, aBOUT THIS,  
AT: sO i KIND OF FIGURE, iF i WAKE UP AND YOU'RE STILL, dEAD,  
AT: aT LEAST i WON'T HAVE RUINED A NICE DREAM, bY QUESTIONING IT,  
TC: i fIgUrE I CaN AlL LiVe wItH ThAt.  
AT: sORRY IF IT SEEMS KIND OF, uH, rUDE FOR ME TO SAY THAT,  
AT: i DON'T ACTUALLY, wANT IT, tO BE A DREAM,  
TC: NaH, ReAlLy bAbE, It'S CoOl. bEtTeR ThAn tErEzI AlL TeLlInG At mE ShE's gOnNa cOmE AfTeR Me fOr iDeNtItY ThEfT Or sOmE ShIt. :o)  
AT: tHAT SOUNDS REALLY, uH, uNPLEASANT, tHAT IS, bOTH HER SAYING SHE'D DO THAT, aND IT POSSIBLY, aCTUALLY HAPPENING,  
TC: wElL ShE CoOlEd hEr jEtS RiGhT DoWn wHeN I AlL CoNvInCeD HeR I WaS Me?  
TC: BuT YeAh, yOu bEiNg AlL ReAdY To jUsT RoLl wItH It eVeN If yOu dO ThInK It mIgHt bE A MoThErFuCkInG DrEaM Is pReTtY MuCh a mIrAcLe.  
AT: cOULD WE NOT, tALK SO MUCH ABOUT THIS, mAYBE, bEING A DREAM? iT IT IS, i'D, uM, rATHER NOT WAKE MYSELF UP BY THINKING ABOUT IT,  
TC: sOuNdS LiKe a mOtHeRfUcKiNg pLaN, BrO.  
AT: tHANKS,  
AT: i REALLY, rEALLY MISS YOU, gAMZEE,  
TC: Aw sHiT, I BeEn gEtTiNg mY LoNeLy wAy oN FoR YoU, ToO.  
AT: ,,,i WANTED TO MAKE, a SMILEY JUST NOW, bUT i CAN'T DECIDE WHAT, uM, eXPRESSION,  
TC: :o) :o( :o/ :o?  
TC: aLl tHe mOtHeRfUcKiNg eXpReSsIoNs  
AT: hA HA, yES, aLL OF THEM,  
AT: tHERE NEEDS TO BE A SMILEY FOR, uM, i THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD, bUT NOW YOU'RE NOT, aND IT MAKES ME MISS YOU MORE,  
AT: eXCEPT i HOPE IT'S NOT, aN EMOTION, tHAT A LOT OF PEOPLE NEED TO EXPRESS,  
TC: ShIt sUcKs, hUh?  
AT: tHAT SEEMS LIKE AN ACCURATE, tHING TO SAY, aBOUT THE SITUATION,  
AT: aRE YOU DOING OK? i MEAN, oN LEVELS OTHER THAN, uM, nOT BEING DEAD,  
TC: i'M GoOd, tAv. :o) hOnK  
AT: oNLY, kARKAT MENTIONED A FEW THINGS, tHAT MADE ME KIND OF, uM, wORRIED,  
AT: lIKE ABOUT YOU BEING SOBER, aND THE gRAND hIGHBLOOD BEING YOUR, uH, aNCESTOR, aND HARASSING YOU, oR SOMETHING  
TC: WeLl oK, YeAh, bUt rEaLlY It aIn'T NoThInG, TaVbRo. dOn'T WoRrY AbOuT Me, kAy?  
 **\-----** message was not delivered

Gamzee frowns at the screen for a moment, and, still frowning, copies and pastes his message.

TC: WeLl oK, YeAh, bUt rEaLlY It aIn'T NoThInG, TaVbRo. dOn'T WoRrY AbOuT Me, kAy?  
 **\-----** message was not delivered  
TC: WeLl oK, YeAh, bUt rEaLlY It aIn'T NoThInG, TaVbRo. dOn'T WoRrY AbOuT Me, kAy?  
 **\-----** message was not delivered  
TC: WeLl oK, YeAh, bUt rEaLlY It aIn'T NoThInG, TaVbRo. dOn'T WoRrY AbOuT Me, kAy?  
 **\-----** message was not delivered  
AT: gAMZEE?  
TC: WeLl oK, YeAh, bUt rEaLlY It aIn'T NoThInG, TaVbRo. dOn'T WoRrY AbOuT Me, kAy?  
AT: gAMZEE?  
AT: oH, tHERE YOU ARE,  
TC: sOrRy bOuT ThAt, tHaT WaSn'T A MiRaClE At aLl :o(  
AT: kARKAT AND sOLLUX SAID, tHAT WE MIGHT LOSE THE CONNECTION,  
AT: sO i'M PRETTY SURE, yOU DIDN'T ACTUALLY CAUSE IT, iN ANY WAY, wHICH MEANS YOU DON'T HAVE TO, uH, aPOLOGISE FOR IT,  
TC: MaYbE I MoThErFuCkInG WaNt tO GeT My aPoLoGy On.  
AT: i GUESS THAT, wORKS TOO?  
TC: bUt rEaLlY, DoN't bE WoRrYiNg aBoUt mE, I'lL Be mOtHeRfUcKiNg fInE OuT HeRe.  
TC: Oh I GoTtA TeLl aT YoU  
AT: yEAH?  
TC: wE WaS StArTiNg tO Do aLl bOuT ThE AgE Of ReVoLuTiOn iN ThE HiStOrY ScHoOlFeEdInG I GoTtA Be dOiNg tHe oThEr nIgHt aNd tHeRe wAs a mOtHeRfuCkInG PoRtRaIt oF ThE SuMmOnEr. aNd I yElpeD LiKe a mOtHeRfUcKeR WhEn i sAw iT, I wAs sO SuRpRiSeD.  
AT: hEH, sORRY IF THAT CAUSED YOU, aNY PROBLEMS,  
TC: NaH, It cOoL, EvErYoNe aLrEaDy tHoUghT I bE CrAzY.  
TC: bEsIdEs iT AiN't yOuR MoThErFuCkIn fAuLt yOu cOmE FrOm a bLoOdLiNe oF StUnNiNglY HaNdSoMe mOtHeRfuCkErS ;o)  
AT: }:) i'D RETURN, tHE COMPLIMENT, bUT THAT MIGHT BE A LITTLE, aWKWARD, wITH YOUR ANCESTOR BEING STILL AROUND, aND ALSO KIND OF TERRIFYING?  
TC: It'S Ok, i'M WaY HaNdSoMeR ThAn tHaT GuY AnYwAy.  
 **\-----** message was not delivered  
TC: mOtHeRfUcK  
 **\-----** message was not delivered  
TC: It'S Ok, i'M WaY HaNdSoMeR ThAn tHaT GuY AnYwAy.  
 **\-----** message was not delivered  
TC: It'S Ok, i'M WaY HaNdSoMeR ThAn tHaT GuY AnYwAy.  
 **\-----** message was not delivered  
TC: It'S Ok, i'M WaY HaNdSoMeR ThAn tHaT GuY AnYwAy.  
AT: uM, oH CRAP, tHAT WAS, uM, wAY AWKWARD OF ME TO SAY, wASN'T IT?  
AT: wAIT, nEVERMIND,  
AT: i'M PRETTY SURE THAT'S NOT HOW, aNCESTRY OR ECTOBIOLOGY, oR WHATEVER, wORKS,  
TC: i KnOw, bAbE  
TC: MiRaClEs, rIgHt?  
TC: tAv, yOu sTiLl tHeRe?  
 **\-----** message was not delivered  
TC: FuCk.  
 **\-----** message was not delivered  
TC: <3  
 **\-----** message was not delivered  
TC: <3  
 **\-----** message was not delivered  
TC: <3  
 **\-----** message was not delivered  
TC: <3  
 **\-----** message was not delivered  
TC: <3  
 **\-----** message was not delivered  
 **\-----** connection **Vanta2Ii2ADouchebag** has been lost

Gamzee glares at the screen, horns burning with chucklevoodoos and eyes pricking with tears, and Terezi scrambles back away from him, putting her back to the door.

After a long moment, she speaks up. "Are you ok? And if you are, could you please stop fucking around with my thinkpan?" she asks, a shakiness to the usual sharp edge of her voice. "I mean, that's you, right? I'm not just suddenly terrified for no reason? You said something about messing with people's heads."

He looks up slowly, and just as slowly draws his hands away from the keyboard. Even more slowly, the chucklevoodoos fade, and he blinks hard to clear his eyes of indigo-tinted tears. "Shit, sorry, sis," he mutters.

She relaxes, just slightly. "Did you lose the connection?" she asks slowly.

Gamzee nods miserably. "Hadn't even gotten to telling him I motherfucking pitied him," he mutters.

Terezi cracks a smile, not quite as wide as her usual grin, but a smile none the less. "I'm pretty sure he knows," she points out.

"I still would have liked to tell the motherfucker," Gamzee replies. He sighs, leans back from the computer and crosses his arms. "Sorry about the making you flip the fuck out, chica."

She shrugs, walking over carefully to reclaim the hustop and captchalogue it. "The first time Equius got cut off talking to Nepeta, he broke the keyboard," she replies. "Then he absconded with the whole computer to fix it, and when he brought it back days and days later, the whole thing tasted like disinfectant."

The teal-blood lays a hand on his shoulder, gentle despite being all claws and sharp angles. "You'll get another chance to talk to him. Lots more chances!"

Gamzee only shrugs. Terezi looks a little miffed, but she doesn't press the issue.

"I oughta get back," Gamzee says after a long moment.

Terezi nods. "You said you had something else going on this morning, right?"

"Carnival, after dinner," Gamzee confirms. He slides off the bench, stretching to work out a kink in his back, which he's pretty sure he managed to give himself by aggressively hunching over the keyboard. He glances over at her, offering a slight smile to echo the one painted across his face. "You should come with some time, sis. It ain't just an indigo thing, you know."

She laughs sharply. "Thanks, Gamz, but I think we both know that's not going to happen," Terezi replies. "Not really my scene, you know? But you have fun with that."

He shrugs. He hadn't really expected her to agree; Gamzee knows that many of his friends don't really understand his continued enthusiasm for the Circus after what they saw and did in the last days they spent outside of their own universe. Heck, he's not always sure he understands it, but then, he's never been much of one for having to understand things. There's still something immensely appealing to him about the whole Circus culture, even with the understanding of what the Mirthful Messiahs actually are.

And he's pretty good by now at smiling and nodding in response to someone who doesn't have his perspective on the universe.

"Right, I motherfucking will, thanks," he says. "Been wound too tightly lately anyway, you know? Maybe now I'll be able to get my relaxation on proper."

She cocks her head, a knowing smile on her face. "Now that you've had a chance to talk to your guys a little, you mean?"

"Oh, hells yes," Gamzee replies. "Seriously, Terezi, I can't be thanking you enough for this bitchtits miracle."

The legislacerator-to-be is doing her best to look nonchalant, but a faint teal stains her cheeks. "Yeah, well, it's not like I don't have ulterior motives here? I mean, I want to talk to Karkat too!"

He chuckles, reaches out to casually ruffle her hair; she half-heartedly moves as if to dodge but doesn't actually get out of the way. "Yeesh, head-molesting the blind girl," she gripes good-naturedly.

Gamzee chuckles. "Didn't your lusus ever warn you bout clowns?"

"I'm going to let that slide, just this once," she informs him, "on account of you being a fellow member of the absent lusus survivor club."

With that, they head out and back across the common space of the Legislacerator Academy, and Gamzee tries to ignore the way that the other trolls give them a little more space than they did when he came in. Another quick hug goodbye and a promise to stay in touch, and Gamzee lets himself out into the corridors of the barracks carrier.

Just as he leaves, as the doors swing shut behind him, he hears a somewhat perplexed voice coming from back inside. "Ok, Pyrope, I'll bite - what the _fresh hell_ was going on there?"

He doesn't hear Terezi's response, and amuses himself most of the way back to his quarters in imagining what she might have said.

At dinner, he makes little effort to join in the conversation, blithely waving off a few inquiries about where he'd been all aftermidnight, which earns him a knowing smirk from Rossan and a quizzical look from Arsast.

Carnival is amazing this morning; the music seems more cheerful than usual, and he's pretty sure no one dies. He nearly jumps out of his skin when someone grabs his arm, but it's just Lydain. She points upward, not trying to talk over the noise; and hey, there's a miracle, had Arsast _mentioned_ he was performing rather than just attending tonight? Gamzee can't remember, but he watches with a grin as his auspistice moves a quick and dangerous dance across the wire, and applauds enthusiastically.

It's the second time someone grabs him that morning that's worrying; as he's leaving after the sacramerriment, a hand closes around one of his horns and yanks him away, off to the side of the slowly moving crowd; Rossan, who he'd been walking with, glances over in surprise and then busies himself in moving along. Gamzee doesn't much blame him; his own blood-pusher is pounding in a way that he doesn't think has much to do with the unpleasant echo of electricity in his horns. There aren't many trolls with a penchant for using his horns as handles by which to drag him around.

The Grand Highblood pushes him roughly against the wall outside the chapel doors. Gamzee winces a little at the impact, wondering if the fact that most of the other circus cultists on the ship are moving past mere feet away affords him any security. His ancestor reaches down, cupping the side of Gamzee's face in one hand and dragging his thumb across the younger troll's cheek, the claw biting through paint and skin alike. Gamzee grits his teeth, grunting at the pain. The Highblood holds him against the wall with one hand still wrapped around Gamzee's horn, his face unreadable behind his elaborate paint.

Cool blood trickles across Gamzee's own paint. The Grand Highblood presses the pad of his thumb to the fresh wound for a moment, then brings the digit to his own mouth, brow knitting in concentration and gaze drifting to somewhere to the right of Gamzee's head. Finally, he releases his grip on the smaller troll's horn; Gamzee stumbles and almost falls as the supporting pressure is let up.

"Not high, just happy," the Grand Highblood mutters.

"No, sir," Gamzee gabbles. "Yes, sir."

His ancestor snorts, in what might possibly be laughter. He turns back to the beginning-to-thin stream of trolls leaving the chapel, then pauses and looks back at Gamzee, who has not quite worked up the nerve to move yet. "Congrats on whatever the fuck garbage you're so happy about," he says, with a toothy smirk, and moves off.

Gamzee stays where the older troll left him for a long moment, trying to catch his breath.


	14. Not Exceptionally Talented

"Ok, it's official," Rossan is saying late one aftermidnight, as Gamzee wanders out into the common block. "This place is officiallyunlivable. I hope you're proudofyour ashes, Gamzee."

Gamzee has just enough time to shoot the other troll a confused look when he tunes into Sephar and Arsast's conversation, and has to fight the urge to facepalm.

"What do you _mean_ , pale Shuest/Sylves?" Sephar demands. "It's clearly unrequited blackrom from her end, and _he's_ canonically pale for Emimma!"

A couple of nights before, Arsast had, as Gamzee understood it, decided that with the two of them being Circus Cultists and Sephar not, he'd been spending too much time with one side of the club and needed to find something to bond with Sephar over. To the mild horror of most of the other subjugglator novitiates, that "something" turned out to be a tv show called "Choral Melee," which Gamzee knows almost nothing about except that Karkat likes to pretend he doesn't know what it is, and that some of the musical numbers were highly entertaining when he was on sopor and watching them out of context.

"Oh, come on, he's obviously flushed for Emimma, and I'd take the relationship with her more seriously if the writers would decide whether she's actually supposed to be aconcupiscent," Arsast replies in a long-suffering tone. "I mean, it's a _little hard_ to get attached to a character I more than half suspect is just going to end up as culling bait anyway."

On the other hand, apparently both Arsast and Sephar watch the show loyally, and have _opinions_ about it.

"They been all like this long?" Gamzee asks, glancing at Rossan, who shrugs.

"Long enough they're notsnappingout of it," the other clown replies. "I was just thinkingabout stepping out for dinner at this point, since they don't seem likely to shut up soon."

"Whoa, we can be doing that?" Gamzee says in honest surprise. "That'd be straight-up awesome."

Rossan chuckles. "Well, yeah," he says. "I mean, there's a kind of generalpopulace mid-to-high mess hall nottoofar from here. I mean, it's kinda slumming it for us, but no one's complained about me eating there yet."

Gamzee's kind of wondering how Rossan came to figure out that this was even an option, when the bright-blood sticks his head into the dorm hallway and yells, "Hey, guys! Gamzee and I are gonnago tryandpickup midbloods! Anyone else want to come?"

A couple of doors open, and Lazapi and Staiko look out with expressions in varying degrees of bafflement and curiosity. "Excuse me, _what?_ " Staiko asks.

Gamzee lifts a hand in something between a wave and a gesture of helplessness. "Well, _this_ motherfucker's just going for something to eat," he says. "Can't rightly speak for Rossan."

Behind him, Arsast and Sephar are now arguing the terpsichorean merits of various characters.

"Are the Meleeks coming?" Lazapi asks after a moment. "Because seriously, as little as I actually want to be seen in public with _either_ of you, Arsast has been driving me insane, I'm serious."

"They are sototallynot invited," Rossan assures her. He looks over his shoulder and repeats, "Arsast, Sephar, you guys are sototallynot invited, ok?"

Arsast looks over with an incredulous expression on his face. "I'm fairly sure neither of us is interested in pailing some anonymous green," he drawls.

Staiko sighs. "See, Rossan, this is why we never want to hang out with you. It's embarrassing for everyone."

"I think the wordyou'relookingfor is _awesome_ ," Rossan retorts. "You comingornot?"

"Hell no," the larger troll replies. "Whatever hell it is you circus clowns believe in, I don't even know. No."

"Lazapi?" Gamzee says, a small hopeful note creeping into his voice. "You wanna come with, chica?"

She looks for a moment like she's going to refuse, and then in the common block Sephar starts off on a rant about how apparently such-and-such a character _can_ sing after all, and Lazapi sighs. "If you can keep your clubs to yourself, and Rossan can keep his hands to himself," she grumbles. "Give me a moment."

She ducks back into her block, and Gamzee finds himself grinning so broadly it hurts a little.

Lazapi's surly and seems a little out of sorts as they walk, hugging her sketchbook to her chest, but Rossan's got all the energy and words the three of them really need anyway, so Gamzee's not too sore about it.

The mess hall is a lot more crowded than Gamzee had really expected, and the three of them grab their food and stand for a moment in a little clump, trying to spot a place to sit. "Man, it's not usuallythisbusy," Rossan complains, shifting his nourishment plateau from one hand to the other. "Suppose we should just, like, startkickingpeople off their tables? I'm pretty sure we'd getawaywith it."

"Nah, brother," Gamzee says, as he spots a table in the back of the room with only one troll sitting at it - one troll who sits with his food apparently forgotten beside him, as his nose is buried in a large, technical-looking book. His broken-horned silhouette is clear against the back wall, and Gamzee grins. "Over there, in the back, see? I bet that motherfucker wouldn't mind at _all_ if we got our friendly on."

Rossan glances at Lazapi, who shrugs. "I think it sounds like an ok plan to me," she says, and they set off across the block, a process that involves a lot of running into people and trying to squeeze between chairs that are far too close together to allow passage, which results in quite a few hastily cut-off angry outbursts. Gamzee's not sure how he feels about that - he's happy enough not to have to possibly physically defend himself every time he accidentally brushes up against someone, but he's not sure how comfortable he is with the fact that it's his uniform and his color that makes most of them back down.

Although at least with him it _is_ the uniform and color, he's pretty sure; after watching a couple of trolls back down from Rossan a little _too_ fast, he's sure the blue-violet troll is slinging around chucklevoodoos pretty indiscriminately. Rossan's always had a lot better aim than Gamzee.

Lazapi manages to get a little ahead of the boys and is the first to the table in the back, pulling out a chair and setting down her dish even as she asks, "Hey, is it cool if we sit here?"

Equius - because of course it _is_ Equius Zahhak, that's not a mistake Gamzee could make even from across a crowded, hectic mess hall - glances up with what begins as irritation and quickly shifts to contrition. "Of course," he says, already half out of his seat and reaching for the long, bepocketed apron carefully folded over the back of the chair. "I was just leaving, of course you may have use of..."

Gamzee cuts him off with a laugh. "Hey, no, motherfucker, you ain't gotta go anywhere," he says, coming up behind Rossan. "Isn't there plenty of room for all of us? Wouldn't want to get in the way of a brother's mealtime, we just need a bit of sit-space."

The Sagittarius is always a little hard to read behind the opaque glasses - and this pair is in a little better shape than some that Equius has worn in the past - but the double-take is clear enough, as is the surprise in his voice. "Highblood!"

Pointedly, almost exaggeratedly slowly, Gamzee looks from Rossan to Lazapi, and then back to Equius with a lop-sided grin and a raised eyebrow. "That formal shit's gonna get _way_ confusing, you know that? Besides, how long we known each other, Equibro? I'm pretty all up and certain I told you you should use my name, lotsa times."

"You have also, on extremely memorable occasion," Equius says, still half out of his chair, and Gamzee's not sure if it's just his usual careful precision in his voice or something more, "told me I should kneel. Pyrope indicated you might be in a similar frame of mind, when I last spoke with her."

Rossan cackles, elbowing Gamzee gently in the ribs. " _Gamzee_ , you arejust _full_ ofsurprises. Aren't you going to introduce us toyourboyfriend?"

That brings out a blue sheen of perspiration on Equius's forehead. "I wouldn't presume - That is, we're not -"

"Just hatefriends, us motherfuckers are," Gamzee hastens to agree, giving the word that means both "friend" and "enemy" its most neutral emphasis. "Guys, this is Equius Zahhak. Bro, meet Rossan Flarae, and the chica's Lazapi Ultmar."

If anything, Rossan's grin grows a bit, and he slides onto the chair next to Equius. "Sit yourassdown, dude," he says, and Equius - of course - promptly does so. Rossan turns slightly in his seat to face the blue-blood, and practically croons, "Hatefriend of Gamzee's is a hatefriendofours. Where've you been _hiding_?"

Gamzee takes a seat himself, setting down the nutrition plateau of grubloaf and pulverized tubers. "Yeah, what _have_ you been doing with yourself, motherfucker?" he asks, latching onto the question and choosing to ignore the way that Equius is obviously soaking through the collar of his shirt over Rossan's tone. "You get into the... what was it you wanted? Archeradicators?"

Equius scowls. "I remain unable to reliably operate a bow," he informs Gamzee, his tone hovering just this side of civil. "I have instead been assigned to the physindustrialists."

"What, you mean likemedicalstuff and prostheses and shit?" Rossan asks, and Equius nods mutely.

Gamzee grins. "Aw, but bro, you're motherfucking bitchtits at that!" he exclaims.

Equius goes faintly blue - and slightly damper - at the praise. "I am not exceptionally talented," he demurs.

"Man, you once replaced a guy's whole lower torso with mechanical bits," Gamzee points out. "That ain't specially good?"

Rossan looks a little impressed. " _Really_. And how... lifelikewasthat? Anatomically correct, shall we say?"

Equius draws back a little, suddenly no longer _faintly_ blue, or merely _damp_. Gamzee is glad of his own paint, because he's sure that behind the white and black, he's gone fairly indigo himself; he'd always kind of privately wondered what, if anything, Tavros's robo-legs had come equipped with, although if he ever asked, he'd been too high at the time to remember the answer afterward.

With something between a smirk and a leer, Rossan leans forward, propping his chin on his hand. "I asked you a question, blueboy," he purrs. "Yougonnaanswer, or leave me here all -"

He's cut off as Lazapi leans across the table and smacks him in the back of the head with her sketchbook.

"Would you leave the poor guy alone?" she says crossly, as Rossan turns to glare at her, gingerly feeling out his skull with his fingertips. Equius takes advantage of the distraction to dip quickly into his sylladex and pull out a towel, mopping furiously at his face and neck as Lazapi chides his harasser. "Honestly, Rossan, we really can't take you _anywhere_ , can we?"

"Technically, I'mtheone taking youplaces," Rossan retorts.

"And being completely ridiculous once we get there," Lazapi sighs. Rossan gives her a dirty look, and a pen finds its way into her hand - not one of her heavy, old-fashioned ones that she keeps mostly as a weapon, but the way she's holding it doesn't make Gamzee think she's got much in the way of art in mind in the near future, unless it's the sort that involves freshly drawn blood. "Really, do you even know _how_ to interact with someone without trying and taking their clothes off at some point?"

Rossan looks down at the pen, and sticks his tongue out at her. "Bulgeblock."

Gamzee prods at his grubloaf with his fork, and glances across the table at Equius, who appears to have mostly composed himself. "So how's them ideas about indigos being motherfucking noble and dignified coming along?" he asks with a rueful grin. Equius makes a small, non-committal noise in the back of his throat.

"Nah, but really, bro, Rossan being obnoxious aside, I'm motherfucking happy for you," Gamzee adds. "I mean, I know it ain't what you wanted to all be doin', but you _are_ pretty damn good with the robotic limbs and shit. I ain't got a clue what I'm doing up in the subjugglators, half the time."

Equius looks ever so slightly smug. "I have a difficult time believing that. If you will pardon a hasty first impression, sobriety suits you, Makara."

Gamzee gives a little half-shrug. "You shoulda seen me those first few days. Or fuck, maybe not." He grins vaguely, picking at the rough edge of one fingernail, where with a little trimming it might almost be to where he can call it a proper claw. Almost.

"Well, the interval seems to have been kind to you," Equius replies. "Isolation from Vantas's enabling influence can't have hurt matters, either-"

Gamzee almost wonders for a moment why Equius has stopped speaking, and then he almost wonders for a moment why he himself is on his feet and leaning way over the table toward the other troll, and then he remembers that wondering too hard about things just harshes the miracles, and it's not as if he's got enough miracles going on right now to shoot them down indiscriminately, so he just runs with it. "Equius, _Equius,_ " he chides, eyes narrowing lazily.

Behind him, he's half aware of the sounds of arguing dropping off, replaced by "Whatthefuck is going on?" and "I don't know, I was too busy yelling at you!"

He's on his feet already, and he's not sure how that happened but it seems right anyway so he kind of ambles around the end of the table to stand over Equius, hands resting casually on each hip. "Now, I _know_ you ain't talking shit about my _best friend_ ," he says. "Know how I motherfucking know that?"

Equius appears to be trying very hard not to look alarmed, and is mostly succeeding. He's a bit less able to disguise the pale blue fluid that is once again building up on his skin.

"Because," Gamzee continues, "because I got my chat on with him not so very long ago, when you couldn't even motherfucking show up to talk to your sweet little kittysister, and because..."

Fuck, he's rambling, he can't shut up, that is _not_ a good sign, points out some corner of his thinkpan still able to process such thoughts; he's already saying things that shouldn't be said aloud even if it's barely loud enough that Equius can hear him, let alone anyone else, and anyway, he can remember _last time_ -

(maybe if he keeps typing, keeps letting out the dying miracles that force their way through his thinkpan, someone, anyone, _Karkat_ will notice before shit gets real)

\- last time it was a very bad sign and it didn't help. And shit, _shit_ , but he should have Karkat here right now to latch onto him like a fucking koala and talk him the hell down, and he can almost hear the shooshing, almost feel the phantom pressure on his arm. It's not real, but reality isn't a place he needs to be right now.

"And because HIS MOTHERFUCKING _INFLUENCE_ is why I do not have my motherfucking fingers WRAPPED AROUND YOUR WORTHLESS NECK right now."

Ok, _that's_ definitely too loud. Equius looks faintly alarmed, which Gamzee figures means "really fucking freaked out" on the usually stoic troll. Well, good. He should be freaked out. Hell, he should be _more_ freaked out, and Gamzee can do something about that, right? Equius's fears on the subject are born of personal experience, it shouldn't take much to nudge him just that tiniest bit further into terror. Just the barest hint of electric fire in his horns, not so much a song as a mosquito whine of power that finds its mark, because Equius draws back as far as he can without leaving his chair.

"Gamzee," comes a cold voice from behind him, and he feels a twist of uncertainty in his gut that almost certainly wasn't there before. "I'm not going to do anything stupid and try to step in or anything dumb like that, but... if you attack your friend, we're back to square one on the Jormun isssue."

Gamzee turns slowly, an empty grin still plastered across his face. "Did you hear me, Lazapi-girl?" he drawls. "I ain't gonna hurt him, because he's _wrong_."

"You aren't acting like it," she points out, fingers shifting slightly on the grip of her pen. "Not really at all."

"Step off, Lazapi," he growls. "You ain't my moirail." He turns his attention, his intention, on her; sees Rossan wince, too, and pulls back just a little, just a little, wonders if he can actually feel it when the chucklevoodoos nestle up against Lazapi's thinkpan, folding her in at the edge of the penumbra of fear, or if that's just the high of _finally figuring this shit out_ that's making him imagine all sorts of fancy metaphorical effects.

He makes a mental note to thank Equius later; the STRONGtroll is infuriating sometimes and not in a good way, but the brother's got Gamzee's _back_ where it counts. Gamzee wonders if he realizes the breakthrough he's inspired; probably not, but hey, isn't that part of the miracle, Equius is helping him out in the ways he doesn't realize, even as he completely fails to be a meaningful help in any of the ways he wants to be.

And then the twist in his gut turns sharply and he halters, suddenly unsure; Lazapi's shoulders are quivering slightly but her eyes are bright and hard.

" _Get the fuck out of my fucking sponge, Makara,_ " she snarls. "I have _told_ you not to fuck with my fears and I mean it."

"An' I just told you to get outta my business, so we're even." He bears down a little, lifting his hand to his temple to see if that really does make it easier to focus, and he can almost swear he maybe feels something _catch_ in her mind, some bit of emotion resonate. He can almost taste it, it's got flavors of _fear_ and... he almost wants to say some sort of attachment, shaded all cool colors? But he can't say for sure because that's when her eyes go wide in panic and hurt, and the pen in her hand clatters to the floor -

And Gamzee feels the chucklevoodoos in his own thinkpan flicker out as he looses concentration because suddenly he feels _oh god oh Mirthful Messiahs oh **fuck** he's gone too far_ , he's pushed too far, he's broken everything. It's there in the look on her face and the cold empty feeling in his gut and _motherfuck_ but he's a fuckup -

And then it's gone. She still looks hella angry and scared and he's sure so does he but the worst of it is gone and he can think straight again.

And she's still here.

"I'm not your moirail," she agrees, something tired and sharp in her voice. "Whoever he is, he must be either an absolute lunatic or an absolute saint, whoever you managed to snag."

Rossan - heh, and Gamzee had forgotten the other clown was even still here - Rossan raises a hand casually. "Hey, was I theonlyone here who _didn't_ know making terriblemoirail jokes at Gamzee would probably be a reallybadidea?"

Lazapi shrugs. "Probably."

"Because that seems like thekindathing you wanna let a guy know," Rossan adds.

Lazapi shrugs again, but makes no other answer. She moves back over to the table, brushing past Gamzee, chin tucked into her chest as if to avoid the way that the people at the next table over are pointedly _not_ staring at the fighting indigobloods. " _Some_ of us still want to eat," she says, apparently to no one in particular, and pushes her plate across the table from where she'd originally put it, pushing Rossan's aside in the process.

"And both of you have officially lost your 'sitting next to Zahhak' rights."

Rossan's expression is some unholy mixture of amusement and outrage, all wrapped up in gaudy paint. Equius sputters a little, as Lazapi rounds the end of the table and sets herself firmly and a little primly next to him. "Milady, neither of your companions were out of line," he begins.

She shuts him up with a wave of her ink-stained hand. " _I_ was freaking embarrassed by the whole thing," she says, rolling her eyes, "and I wasn't even really involved. _Clowns_."

"I think you lost plausibledeniability about the time you got your ash on for the entire room," Rossan gripes, rubbing again at the back of his head. "You should lookintogetting a bookKind card or something."

Lazapi's cheeks darken indigo. "I was not _auspistizing_ for anyone," she mutters. "That is not a thing that was happening."

Rossan throws both hands in the air as he turns and walks away. "Whatever. I'm gonna go find someone _interesting_ to sit with."

Gamzee watches as the other clown begins to wander off, does an abrupt about-face, and returns to retrieve his plate. "Forgot something," he says flippantly. "Don't have too much fun without me, now."

With a sigh, Lazapi brushes curls from her face. "You going or staying, Gamzee?"

The lanky troll hesitates.

"Don't just stand there," Lazapi gripes.

"If... if Equius don't mind?"

In response, Equius fidgets with the temple of his dark glasses, putting a slight bend in the arm. "I have no grounds on which to object-"

"Motherfucking hoofbeastshit, Eq," Gamzee snaps, a bit more of an edge to his voice than he really might have liked... but he realizes he doesn't really feel angry, now; if anything, he feels tired. Equius winces almost imperceptibly at the profanity. It's more reaction than he gives to the rest of what Gamzee says. "I just motherfucking threatened to kill you." Enough of a pause that he knows both of them are filling in the unspoken, _again_. "I could get my understanding on how that could make a motherfucker _twitchy_."

Maybe he'll just head back. Lazapi didn't really want to spend time with _him_ anyway, she won't mind if he goes.

Just as he's pretty much decided to go, though, Equius speaks up. "If you require my input... I would prefer that you stay, Highblood. I was careless in my speech. It will not happen again."

Lazapi gives Equius a puzzled look and Gamzee gives one of honest surprise. "You sure, bro?"

"I will be most careful to avoid voicing inappropriate-"

Gamzee groans. "Not what I meant, my brother."

"Oh."

Lazapi sighs. "Just give him an answer, Zahhak," she gripes - or perhaps "orders" is the appropriate word; Gamzee's sure that's how Equius will interpret it.

Equius swallows, persperation again building on the planes of his forehead and jaw, but his voice is as level as ever as he says, "I am glad to see you well and would like the opportunity to speak with you, Highblood. I apologize if I did not make this clear before."

Gamzee smiles slowly, crookedly. "That _almost_ sounded like something a real live troll would say to a friend," he says, and moves to take his seat again. "I'll take it."

The look on Equius's face might almost be a smile. The look on Lazapi's face is pure, unadulterated confusion. "Are all your friends as crazy as you, Gamzee?"

Gamzee shrugs. "Not nearly, Chica. Most of the motherfuckers are at least as crazy as Equius, though," he replies.

There's a moment of silence that's not exactly companionable but is at least not actively hostile on anyone's part, in which Gamzee kind of regrets that last remark; most of the others in their group of friends would have had a ready retort for him. Joking around with Equius is a little like joking around with one of Equius's robots. It's possible, he supposes, just kind of pointless.

A little to Gamzee's surprise, it's Equius who breaks the silence. "If I might ask a question...?"

"Shoot, motherfucker," Gamzee prompts easily. Equius looks to Lazapi, who nods encouragingly if a little impatiently.

"During the altercation, Miss Ultmar, you mentioned 'the Jormun issue,'" Equius says, slowly but matter-of-factly. Gamzee freezes, wondering where exactly the blueblood is going with this. "Would that by any chance be in reference to Jormun Kaouth?"

What follows is among the more awkward silences Gamzee can remember experiencing.

"How do you know that name?" Lazapi finally demands, her voice thin and strained. She pushes her glasses firmly up the bridge of her nose - about the only thing remotely firm about her demeanor.

Equius shrugs, not meeting her eyes or Gamzee's; he fidgets briefl with the book in his hands and hastily puts it down after putting a sharp bend in the back cover.

"Did you know him?" Lazapi insists. When the blueblood continues to hesitate, she grits her teeth and all but growls, "Give me an answer, Zahhak, answer me."

The sweat stands out on the big troll's face, and Gamzee privately wonders which would be less embarrassing for everyone involved, allowing Lazapi to continue issuing orders or explaining to her why she shouldn't. Maybe he'll mention it to her later, in private, if he can find a time when she's not too hostile.

"Not well," Equius finally replies. "Mediliquidators may work closely with physindustrialists, but I have only personally met Kaouth a few times."

Gamzee scowls, trying to ignore the hard knot in his throat. "Then why give us motherfuckers a blood-pusher episode by asking about him?"

"His disappearance caused something of a disturbance in the medical complex," Equius replies, each word careful and a little hesitant. "It's not unheard of for mediliquidators to be attacked or killed by someone close to a patient they have chosen to cull rather than treat, but at least in such a case there is usually _someone_ who knows what happened. And Kaouth was known to regularly treat more serious cases than some would take on."

Lazapi buries her face in her hands. "Oh, god I thought he'd at least have reported the whole mess to someone or something."

"Why?" Gamzee demands, and he's a little surprised at the vitriol in his own voice. "This is the Grand Motherfucking Highblood we're talking here, Laz-girl. You think he gives a shit?"

"Excuse me, I am not certain I'm following?" Equius puts in. "Are you saying that Kaouth was culled by the Grand Highblood himself?"

Lazapi looks up long enough to give Gamzee a look he can't quite read - challenge, expectation? It's clear enough that she's waiting for him to answer.

"Grand Highblood gave the order, anyway," he says.

" _Gamzee_ ," Lazapi growls.

"Grand Highblood gave the motherfucking order _to Lazapi_ ," Gamzee amends, scowling at her. "And I stepped in on account of they were friends. And I don't motherfucking wish culling friends on _nobody_."

Equius arches an eyebrow at that, a challenge that would probably be unwise to voice, and Gamzee shakes his head ever so slightly in reply. No matter what might have been going through either boy's head on that asteroid -

(finally, he understands what the motherfucker who's leaking deep blue has _wanted_ of him all these sweeps, and the hilarious bit is, Equius himself seems to have only just understood it, because the uncertainty in his voice and the fear on his face as Gamzee moves to grant him his dearest wish is glorious, gives a better high than any pan-rotting chemical)

\- it's not a memory that Gamzee cherishes.

Of course, Lazapi seems oblivious to the silent exchange. She once again rests her face in her hands, glaring daggers at Gamzee through her fingers. "Go ahead, dress it up, sure. Wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of your friend."

"What, you think I care what this motherfucker thinks?" Gamzee demands. His eyes flick to Equius, and he adds, "No offense, bro."

"None taken, Highblood," Equius replies mildly.

Lazapi groans. "Are you two even _listening_ to yourselves?"

Gamzee grits his teeth, hunching his shoulders in a little defensively. "I already told the hell outta you, Lazapi, _I'm sorry_. I don't know what else I can motherfucking do, sis."

He hesitates a moment, then adds, "If it helps any, it ain't gonna motherfucking happen again. Gee-Aich was pretty motherfucking clear he'd cull you next I tried anything like that."

Slowly, she lowers one hand. "That's new, you didn't say that before," she says, a note of suspicion in her voice.

Gamzee shrugs. "Would it have helped anything?"

"I don't even know," she mutters.

"I'm sorry, Chica."

" _Stop fucking apologizing._ "

To Gamzee's surprise, it's Equius who breaks the silence that follows. "I'm... sorry for your loss, milady."

Lazapi folds her hands on the table in front of her, staring down at her interlaced fingers, stained today in yellow and green. "Thanks," she says in a very low voice.

There's something that strikes Gamzee as a little unfair about that, that Equius is allowed to say that and he's not. Which is stupid, it's not even really the same thing. Ok, it's not even close to the same thing.

It's still not fair.

There's a lull in the conversation; Gamzee wishes he could figure out how to change the subject without actually sounding like he's trying to change the subject, and instead prods at his food with his fork. Finally, in a minor miracle so far as Gamzee is concerned, Lazapi speaks up again.

"You know, Zahhak, your sign looks familiar, you know?" she says, casting a glance at the royal blue crossed arrow on his clothes. "Did you buy one of my paintings last sweep?"

Equius's eyebrows quirk upward. "It is... possible?" he hedges. "My apologies, milady, I don't recall. I've bought a great many art pieces in the past few sweeps."

Lazapi grins sheepishly. "Well, I can't say I've _sold_ a lot," she admits. "It would have been, hmmm... 'She-beast and cubs feasting on the entrails of a troll by green moonlight,' I think?"

"That the title of a painting or a motherfucking film?" Gamzee chuckles. Lazapi rolls her eyes.

"It's a perfectly respectable title for a painting," she informs him.

"For a rather good painting, I might add," Equius puts in, making Lazapi beam. "Yes, that was one of my purchases, I remember now."

"Do you mind," he adds, looking to Lazapi, "if I ask you something about it?"

"Is it anything like your last question?" Gamzee growls.

"Oh, quiet, you," Lazapi chides. "He wants to ask something about the _painting_ , Gamzee. I doubt the _painting_ has killed anyone we know."

She looks to Equius. "Go ahead."

"I've never been quite able to determine, with the _strong_ green lighting in the piece - what color is the dead troll's blood meant to be?" he asks.

"Oh, eh." Lazapi thinks for a moment, drumming her fingers along her bottom lip. When her answer comes, Gamzee nearly chokes on a forkful of grubloaf.

"If I remember right, it was red. Like unrealisticly bright red, like animals have."

"Fascinating," Equius murmurs, as Gamzee sputters, " _Why_?"

"I don't really remember?" Lazapi replies. "Probably something about being savage and close to the nature of musclebeasts or something. I painted some pretty obnoxiously symbolic bullshit in the perigrees around my seventh wriggling day."

The expression on Equius's face isn't quite a smile or quite a smirk. "Please don't apologize because _some_ trolls are deliberately uncultured."

"Hey, I'm a plenty cultured motherfucker," Gamzee objects. "Just my miracle of choice is performing arts, not visual."

"Of... course, Highblood." Equius doesn't sound entirely convinced, but he agrees nonetheless.

"Circus totatally counts as culture," Gamzee insists, a little petulantly.

"I did not say it wasn't."

"You motherfucking meant it, though."

"I assure you, I did not."

Lazapi smiles crookedly. "Are you guys actually arguing about whether you're arguing?"

"Of course not, that would be foolish-" Equius begins, but he swallows the words as Gamzee laughs and says, "Yeah, s'pose we are, sister."

"You," Equius informs him, "are insufferable."

Gamzee grins toothily at him. "You don't gotta suffer me if you don't want to," he points out. "Any time you want to tell me to buzz off..."

Equius hastily looks away, reaching to his sylladex for another towel.

The conversation winds a bit more, somehow staying clear of any other really dangerous topics although Gamzee's pretty sure that the vast majority of the time only two out of the three of them are actually comfortable with what's being discussed. Eventually, Equius glances up at the clock high on one wall and gives a little start. "I'm very sorry, but I must be going," he says.

Gamzee turns in his seat to look for himself, and sighs. "Oh, shit, me too, I'm gonna be late for Carnival if I don't get going."

Lazapi simply leans back in her seat and smiles, and Gamzee returns the expression with a smirk of his own. "Yeah, ok, we get it, you ain't got any evening obligations, godless sister."

"Uncalled for," she retorts, crossing her arms a little defensively.

Gamzee looks at her in mild confusion. "I was joking around, Laz, most of the trolls on this ship are probably some variation of godless heathen, 'specially from a Circus point of view," he says. "Equius, bro, you ain't particularly religious-minded, right?"

The blue-blood fixes him with a sour look. "I have seen enough to make such a worldview difficult to maintain. I would have thought you had, too, considering our... mutual wigglerhood experiences."

And the thing is, he kind of has a point -

(shaking to his bones and just barely convinced that he's no more and no less than Gamzee Makara, who has made some mistakes but has a moirail who pities him so much and won't let it happen again, when suddenly he's faced with the reality of that which only hours before he was convinced he _was_ )

\- but it's not a point Gamzee can concede, so he smiles and shrugs. "I don't half figure I've seen all the miracles in the world yet, let alone understood them," he replies.

He can't read Equius's expression now; the other boy has on his blankest, most inward-turned stare.

"My online handle remains centaursTesticle," Equius says, standing up. "You should feel free to contact me at your convenience. I will... admit that I have somewhat missed our habitual conversations, Highblood."

Gamzee raises an eyebrow; while Equius has never quite avoided him or been hostile, their daily conversations have not been a thing that has happened since before Sgrub. "Motherfuck, bro, likewise," he replies. "I'm still terminallyCapricious."

"Er, mercurialDauber," Lazapi puts in, half-raising a hand. "Although now that I've said that, I'm realizing that maybe you guys just wanted to exchange tags with each other, and I'm kind of out of line..."

Equius offers a small, tight smile. "Miss Ultmar, if you wish me to add you to my contact list, I should be honored," he says. "Now if you'll excuse me, I really do have to go."

"Of course, motherfucker, get out of here," Gamzee says quickly, and Equius hurries off.

Once the blue-blood is gone, Gamzee stands and stretches; he looks around, but doesn't spot Rossan anywhere. Probably already left for Carnival, or found someone "interesting" to skip Carnival with, he figures. He looks back to Lazapi, who seems to be finished with her meal as well. "Hey, so, I think the shortest way to Carnival from here goes back past our place anyway," he says. "Walk with me?"

She looks at him for a long moment, and sighs. "Not tonight, Gamzee," she says. "You go ahead, I think I might hang around here for a while."

On his way to Carnival, Gamzee _almost_ manages to convince himself that she just didn't want to go back to a common block that was potentially still full of Choral Melee discussion. Almost.


	15. Telling Half-Truths

"What I don't understand," Arsast says, sharp exasperation in his voice as he takes Gamzee's head in both hands and tilts it to take a better look, "is how she managed to do this to you without you noticing."

Gamzee shrugs, and Sephar's laugh comes from somewhere down the hall, "I didn't think I'd actually be able to! Gamzee's just an idiot, I guess!"

"Shut the hell up, Seph," Arsast yells back, and returns his attention to Gamzee's hair. "Seriously, though, these are some really impressive sailor's knots, these must have taken her like ten minutes. I think there might be some glue or something in here, too. Your sense of your surroundings is for _shit_ , Gamz, you're lucky she just wanted to mess with you."

"So why am I banished to my block like a wriggler?" Sephar yells.

"Because you're acting like one! Seriously, who ties knots in someone's hair?" Arsast gripes. He pushes Gamzee over to sit on one of the couches, and climbs up to perch on the back of said couch, sharp knees poking Gamzee in the back. "Ok, let me take a look here..."

"I can motherfucking manage it," Gamzee says, trying to pull away.

Arsast flicks him sharply in the base of one horn. "No, you can't, you won't be able to see what you're doing. And then you'll just get frustrated and take it out on Sephar. And possibly the rest of us, if you get pissed off enough to start leaking 'voodoos."

A few moments of intense silence and what feels like exploratory tugging later, Arsast sighs. "I think we might just have to cut some of this."

"Awww," Gamzee groans. "Come _on_ , ashbro..."

"If I can't untie it, I can't untie it," Arsast replies. "I'm doing my level best, here..."

His voice trails off, and Gamzee looks up as best he can with the other troll's fingers still on the mess of his knotted hair, as the Grand Highblood comes in.

Somehow, it's immediately clear the difference between when the Grand Highblood comes _through_ the novitiates' common block, and when the Grand Highblood comes _to_ the novitiates' common block.

There are times, after all - and it seems that they're more common now than a perigee ago - when the huge adult does simply pass through, because this area is part of his domain, as much as any region of the ship and much more so than many parts. So while they still jump a little when he passes through, it's a practiced kind of jumpy, a reflexive kind of trying to look presentable, or at least marginally more presentable than the next troll over. There's just a little less of a rush, recently, to be next to Gamzee in such a situation, which is honestly kind of a relief.

But occasionally, and this is such an occasion, the Subjugglator's attention is not entirely elsewhere.

Sometimes, some of the others make an effort to avoid catching the Grand Highblood's eye, but Gamzee's kind of given up on that. The majority of the time, if the adult is looking for anyone in particular, it's his descendent. And anyway, avoiding notice would be a little hard at the moment.

The Grand Highblood levels a skeptical look on them, but doesn't say anything.

"Sir," Arsast says, his tone level and matter-of-fact in that way that makes Gamzee wonder where the little troll was when they were handing out a sense of when to shut up, "I'd like to recommend Sephar Ornold for the laughsassins."

"The fuck are you talking about?" the Grand Highblood asks as he crosses the block. He sounds... well, not upset, anyway, maybe faintly amused.

Gamzee can feel the fingers against his scalp tense just a little, but Arsast's voice remains calm and a little flippant. "She managed to do a number on Gamzee's hair, without his noticing."

The Grand Highblood looks at Gamzee. "One of the others fucks with you, so you let someone else get their hands all over you, kid?"

Gamzee shrugs, hands tightening into fists in his lap. Suddenly he's a bit less comfortable with Arsast directly behind him with his hands in his hair, when the other troll is all quick movements and sharp edges... but there's also a faint sensation in his horns that's not like his own chucklevoodoos, so he figures that's just Arsast's response to the questioning. "Shouldn't I be letting my auspistice handle shit?" he asks, cautious and a little resentful.

The adult's expression is blank for a moment, before giving way to a slow smirk with entirely too many teeth. "You've gone and ashed up, then - with the Lilit girl?"

"A couple of weeks ago, your Levity," Arsast replies.

The Grand Highblood responds with a noise that might be approval and might be thoughtfulness and might be derision, and moves to push Gamzee's head forward by the horn and take a look at the tangled, knotted mess that apparently takes up most of the back of Gamzee's head. Arsast draws his hands back, and Gamzee grits his teeth to stop himself from objecting.

For what seems like a long time, Gamzee sits, his Ancestor's eyes boring into the back of his head. Then suddenly he feels a long, clawed finger slide through a loop of hair and yank.

" _Motherfuck,_ " Gamzee growls at the abrupt pain in his scalp, and his hands fly to the source of the pain -

But Arsast bats his hands away and begins deftly picking through tangles. "Hey, that freed up most of the worst of it," he says. "Thank you, sir."

"Yeah, thanks," Gamzee mutters. His Ancestor laughs.

"Go pack your sylladex once you've got that sorted, Capricorn," the adult instructs.

"What?" Gamzee demands, looking up quickly. Arsast flashes a bit of psychic intimidation at him, and flicks a finger hard against his horn base again.

The Grand Highblood doesn't seem too upset by the outburst. "I'm taking you with me for a few nights," he says, with a shrug. "Of course, if you _want_ to come without so much as a fucking change of clothes..."

Gamzee starts to shake his head, recieves a warning growl from Arsast, who continues to pick though his hair, and lifts a hand in a kind of shrug instead. "Sorry, sir. How long we gonna be gone?"

"Three, four nights?" The Grand Highblood replies. "I don't fucking know how long this is going to take, especially with you in tow, but something like that."

Gamzee is abruptly glad that he has a good reason not to move his head in reply, a good reason to look down at his hands in his lap, because his throat seems to have closed up.

Three nights is an interruption to his routine, but nothing he can't manage.

Four nights coincides with the next scheduled contact with his friends and quadrants back on Alternia.

Arsast hurries through the rest of the chore, working quickly and methodically, and not _so_ hurried that he doesn't push Gamzee's hands away when he tries to help. Gamzee finally gives up trying to hurry the task along after Arsast gets fed up and lets the tip of a claw come to bear, leaving a shallow scratch across the back of Gamzee's hand.

Once Gamzee's hair has been returned to its usual state of unruliness, he hurries off to pack as instructed. He feels a little guilty about leaving Arsast alone with the Grand Highblood.

But only a little.

It doesn't take long to pack - several identical changes of uniform, his paint-pots, the various detritus of personal grooming and a single bicycle horn he'd found in a little-used cycle of his sylladex a few weeks ago. He's not certain why he's held onto it the way he has; even back home... back on Alternia, it had been a while since he'd really surrounded himself with horns.

The sound doesn't bother him, but Karkat still jumps out from under his horns at the sound of a honk, and some of his friends aren't much better.

Speaking of friends - that's the catch.

"I'm pretty motherfucking certain this ain't what Arsast meant when he said you should stay back here," he growls at Sephar, who has once again claimed the computer. Gamzee hopes he managed to close his chat window when he discovered Sephar messing with his hair, but he supposes that even if he didn't, it's not like either he or Equius had been saying anything remotely incriminating, thank mirth for small miracles.

"Give up on unraveling my handiwork already?" she asks casually, turning to smirk at him.

He scowls, absentmindedly running a hand over the back of his head. "We got that shit sorted," he retorts. "Let me use the motherfucking computer, Sephar. For less than two minutes, literally."

"You just got done with it," she says primly. He glances over her shoulder. She quickly closes a word processor file, before he can see what she's writing.

"You picked a fight to get me to log off," he reminds her peevishly. "I wasn't motherfucking done. Let me back on for a minute, and you're shut of me for nights and motherfucking nights, I swear..."

Before Sephar can answer, Lazapi sticks her head into the block. "Hey, I just came through the common block, and the Gee-Aich is out there and he looked kind of impatient when I came through," she jabbers. "He said to see what was taking Gamzee so long."

Sephar looks at Gamzee, irritation and disgust plain on her face. "You left Arsast alone with the Grand Highblood?"

Gamzee shifts a little uncomfortably, his breath catching ever so slightly in his throat. "Arsast can handle his own self," he retorts.

"Gamzee -" Lazapi hisses, glancing nervously over her shoulder.

Gritting his teeth, Gamzee throws a last glare at Sephar and all but shoves past Lazapi, his hand closing around her upper arm and pulling her with him.

"Chica, I need a favor," he growls under his breath, closing the door.

Lazapi tugs against his grip. "Let go of me, Gamzee."

He looks down at his hand and is somehow a little surprised to find it wrapped around her arm. Slowly, he unwraps his fingers. She glares at him, and turns away.

"Wait," he hisses, and almost reaches to grab her again. He thinks better of it at the last moment, and she hesitates, not quite turning her head enough to look back at him. "I'm serious, Lazapi, no motherfucking joke here. You been talking to Equius at all? You remember his tag, at least? CentaursTesticle."

She shrugs.

Gamzee takes that as confirmation. "Can you tell at him I'll be gone a few nights?" he demands, _sotto voce_ , stepping in close behind her. His horns begin to tingle and he fights it down before it can start. "I might not make it to... to that thing we were planning."

"What thing?" she hisses.

"He'll know what it means," Gamzee replies. "I just can't get a hold of the motherfucker myself at the moment, see?"

" _What thing?_ " Lazapi repeats, turning to look at him.

"Just... just some folks I knew planetside getting together," he replies reluctantly. "They already thought I was dead once, sis, I don't wanna worry them again."

Somehow, telling half-truths to Lazapi is a lot harder than telling half-truths to the Grand Highblood.

But Lazapi's expression softens ever so slightly, as she pushes her glasses into place. "I'll see about it," she says, and gives him a shove toward the common block. "Now _go_ , before he gets any more annoyed than he already is."

As Gamzee returns to the common block, he almost thinks Arsast looks relieved, but the flicker of expression is gone before Gamzee can be sure.

"What, you get lost back there or something?" The Grand Highblood asks.

Gamzee shrugs. "Something like that."

The Grand Highblood rolls his eyes, and makes a gesture that might have been intended as a beckons and might have been a grab toward one of Gamzee's horns as Gamzee approaches. Gamzee ducks out of the way almost instinctively, quick on his feet... and freezes.

He's just _dodged_ the Grand Highblood. He took his initiative and denied his Ancestor control over the situation. Could this be bad? Very bad, he can't help thinking, as he slowly looks up at adult, dreading further irritation or outright anger.

The elder Capricorn is smiling. A sharp smirk framed by jagged paint, but still, something of a smile. "I was wondering how long it'd fucking take you to start avoiding that," he says.

Gamzee still stands frozen, fear giving way to disbelief. He's being... praised. For something he's _wanted_ to do just about every time the Grand Highblood decided to literally drag him off somewhere? After a moment, the Grand Highblood gives him a little shove toward the door, making him stumble until his feet remember how to move.

"Well, it's progress, anyway," the adult mutters.

It's a little odd to make the trip to the shuttle port. The route, so far as Gamzee can determine, is the same as they transversed that first evening on board, only flipped around going the other way, of course. The oddest bit, though, is to pass through these same corridors now, steady on his feet and moving under his own power and at least with the illusion of his own initiative.

There are no so many curious stares now. Has word gotten around that there are now two of the Capricorn line on the ship, or is it simply that Gamzee now looks enough the part of a subjugglator that it doesn't draw attention to see him with the Grand Highblood, regardless of the resemblance?

When he does catch a young blue woman watching with cautious curiosity, Gamzee slows minutely and lifts a hand in a small wave. The Grand Highblood glances over his shoulder impatiently as Gamzee begins to fall behind, and the blue-blood is abruptly looking anywhere else.

The craft they board is small, sleek to the point of sharp, the scarlet of the star-shell trimmed in indigo. _Starsprinter Levity_ is picked out in the formal, spiky script of Old High Alternian along the curve of the hull.

From the stark lines of the outside of the ship, Gamzee almost expect the interior to be spartan, but it's done up in the same colorful style as the Grand Highblood's adminisblock and more so, the compact furnishings upholstered in opulent colors, and the walls and floor covered in an oddly pearlescent surface that Gamzee realizes, pausing to take a closer look, is many layers of blood and clear laquer layered over each other.

"Like it?" the Grand Highblood asks, seeing Gamzee examining the wall next to the hatch. He gives Gamzee a little shove out of the way as he ducks into the shuttle, having to bend his head to get his horns clear of the door frame. "Took me fucking ages to hit on something that would seal multiple layers without discoloring shit."

Gamzee nods carefully, catching himself against the wall as he's pushed out of the way. It's cool and a little slick under his hand. "It's... pretty," he says, and it is, layers and layers of colorful blotches carefully tucked away behind a shell hard and clear as glass.

The smile the Grand Highblood gives him in reply looks almost genuine.

"Little odd that us motherfuckers are prettiest when we're bled out, though," Gamzee adds, not entirely sure why he's still talking, except that his ancestor in a good mood is a strangely compelling experience.

The Highblood pauses as he makes his way over to the throne-like chair that presides over a bank of keys and readouts, looking at Gamzee with a raised eyebrow. "Only the ones what don't know beauty when it bites them," he replies with a chuckle.

Gamzee's not certain how to respond to that, but the Grand Highblood doesn't seem to require a response. He turns to the control panel, ignoring the pilot's chair as he starts up the craft. In fact, he ignores Gamzee entirely, save for a distracted, "Sit down, boy, unless you like being dumped on your ass," until they've left the barracks-carrier's sphere of influence. View ports fade into visibility along the roof and bow of the craft, clear spaces edged by splotches of color, and Gamzee realizes that for all that he's been on the carrier for the better part of two perigees now, this is the first time he's seen the starscape from outside the atmosphere.

The sky around them is almost distressingly flat in its blackness, with none of the nuance and depth of the purples and greens of the Alternian night sky. The black is stabbed by an impossible number of white stars, and an equally improbable-seeming number of red spacecraft.

"Motherfucking miracles," Gamzee mutters, staring.

The Grand Highblood chuckles. "This ain't even nearly half the fucking fleet, kid."

"No, I mean, just..." Gamzee waves a vague hand at the space above him. "I ain't got words, sir."

After a long moment of contemplative silence, the Grand Highblood shrugs. "It's ok, I guess."

He hits a few more controls and then swivels the throne-like pilot's chair to face the cabin, settling into it with feet planted firmly and widely on the floor. "So, you and the Lilit and Percontativus, huh?"

Gamzee is beginning to seriously wonder if the Grand Highblood has bothered to learn _anyone's_ names or if he's just going to wait until they choose _noms de guerre_ when they finish their training. He nods.

"Any other quadrants I should know about?"

Gamzee shakes his head, maybe a little too quickly. "Nah, sir." After all, if there's anything he's sure of, it's that the Grand Highblood should not know about either of his red quadrants.

The adult gives him a long, calculating look, and Gamzee almost thinks he must have somehow noticed the deception. "Pretty fucking bold," he finally says, and Gamzee's blood-pusher nearly stops before he continues, "filling ashen before you've got a kismesis."

Gamzee's a little glad he was already sitting, because he feels suddenly weak in the knees and he's sure that if they were actively involved in holding him up, his legs would be rather unsteady right now. "Filling black wouldn't do us much good if we killed each other 'fore the motherfucking drones took notice. Or if one'a the others got fed up and killed us over it. Takin' a kismesis is supposed'a be a miracle, not a death sentence, right?"

His ancestor's look darkens momentarily, paint looking more skull-like than ever. "Guess if you really think there's THAT MUCH FUCKING DIFFERENCE it couldn't have been black serendipity, anyway," the Grand Highblood finally says.

Gamzee turns his gaze to the stars again, avoiding looking at his ancestor. "And Arsast ain't bad at getting in our way, neither?" he says. "And he had a motherfucking point 'bout us not wanting to live with a kismesis? Sephar ain't good for my impulse control, really."

"You could have asked for block reassignments," the Grand Highblood says.

"Would you have given us one?" Gamzee asks hesitantly. "Only I was pretty sure Sephar already been asking, lots of times, see?"

"Probably not," the adult confirms. "You could have asked, though."

"I wasn't _looking_ to get my spade on with her, really," Gamzee says. "She's irritating as all motherfuck, but she's got more issue with me than I've got with her..."

The Grand Highblood gives him another long look. "You do realize you still gotta find a blackmate before the drones come around, right?" he says after a moment. "Even if they ain't what you see as your best match? 'Less you're an idiot and get yourself culled for something else - and I'm not fucking ruling that one out - you got an awful lot of sweeps ahead, kid. Serendipity can take a while to get around to the likes of us."

Gamzee thinks of his three filled quadrants, and has a little trouble not smirking. "Yes, sir."

There's a moment of silence that might be awkward if it wasn't mildly terrifying, and Gamzee finally adds, "You're talking from motherfucking personal experience, ain't you?"

"You got any idea how fucking old I am, kid?"

Gamzee thinks of his history lessons, trying to calculate, and soon gives up. "Not really," he admits.

The elder Capricorn smirks, looks away, shoves a clawed hand through his hair. "Heh. Not sure I do anymore, either, kid. Older than serendipity knows what to fucking do with, I think sometimes."

It doesn't seem like a topic that ought to be pursued.

Gamzee sits a moment, finding new and interesting ways to interlace his fingers.

"Where are we going at?" he finally asks, realizing he hasn't yet.

The Grand Highblood turns his chair away, braces one foot against the edge of the control panel. "You'll see when we get there," he growls.

"Only I think I'm probably less likely to embarrass the shit out of both of us if I know ahead of time," Gamzee adds.

"You will FUCKING SEE when we GET THERE."

Gamzee doesn't press the issue, as the electric fire echoes in his horns for a moment.

He watches the stars and the fleet for he's not sure how long, while the Grand Highblood resolutely ignores him. It seems to Gamzee it must be at least a couple of hours, though, weaving between huge crafts that briefly obscure swaths of starry sky before the starsprinter swings past and back out into black emptiness.


	16. Ain't No Sea Dweller's Sign

And then finally they don't go around but _to_ one of the ships, another carrier-type. The starsprinter slides into a berth and Gamzee grabs at the edge of his seat as the sudden change in momentum throws him off balance.

As he collects himself, the grand Highblood is already moving to disembark, beckoning impatiently for Gamzee to follow. He's got his just-this-side-of-manic business face on, the one the dramatic paint sets off so well. Gamzee follows, stepping carefully and nervously adjusting his gauntlets.

A troll in the uniform of a ranking legislacerator is waiting for them in the shuttle port, a full-grown adult with the indeterminately aged look of a blue-blooded troll in his prime; he could be a few dozen sweeps older than Gamzee, or a few hundred, although his rank indicates it's probably closer to the latter. He salutes the Grand Highblood, glancing a little curiously at Gamzee, who resists the urge to hide behind his ancestor.

The Highblood nods his acknowledgment. "You've secured the scene?" he asks, sounding a little impatient.

"Of course, your Levity," the legislacerator replies.

"Well, DON'T keep us FUCKING WAITING," the Grand Highblood growls.

The other troll's eyes flick again to Gamzee, who squares his shoulders and lifts his chin and avoids looking directly at the unfamiliar adult. He can feel the barest echo of psychic energy in his horns, and it takes a moment for Gamzee to convince himself that he is in fact just getting feedback from standing so near the Grand Highblood and is not doing it himself.

It also takes him a moment to convince himself that it's a good thing he isn't the one imposing fear on the blue-blood.

"Are you certain you want to bring the child, your Levity?" the legislacerator asks.

Gamzee shows a few more teeth than his usual overbite accounts for, and the Grand Highblood shoves him backward, hard enough to make Gamzee stumble, with one casual hand in the middle of Gamzee's chest. "Behave, kid," the subjugglator growls, never taking his eyes from the other adult. "You fucking QUESTIONING ME, Vextruth?"

"I apologize, your Levity, forget I said anything," the legislacerator says, quickly but easily.

The Grand Highblood makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a throaty laugh as he motions for the other troll - Vextruth, apparently - to lead the way. "Blues," he grumbles, and Gamzee can't help relaxing just a little as the chucklevoodoos stop as abruptly as flipping a switch. "You and your fucking psychic resistance. Any dirtblood would've been pissing themself by now."

"Which is a major factor in your refusal to work with trolls below a certain hue, if I remember correctly," Vextruth replies, arching an eyebrow although his voice remains even and unreadable.

"Well, yeah," the Grand Highblood agrees. "Don't mean it isn't satisfying, though. Get on with you, we haven't got all night. Sooner we get this fucking mess sorted, the better."

The legislacerator nods and turns sharply on his heel; the Grand Highblood follows and Gamzee scrambles to keep up. The layout of this craft seems to be very like that of the barracks-carrier Gamzee has spent the last couple of perigrees on, although he's not entirely sure since they're passing through areas that he's not sure correspond to any part of his own ship that he's familiar with.

There are more uniforms of combat divisions on this ship, he notices, more ruffiannihilators and cavalreapers, more uniforms he doesn't recognize off the top of his head. The glances that Gamzee's group gets are more openly confused and fearful than they would be back home.

It startles him a little to realize he's now thinking of the other ship as home.

Eventually they reach an area that seems eerily deserted. Not long after they leave the crowds behind, they come to a door that looks rather like an airlock, flanked by a muscular teal-blood in threshecutioner uniform who looks as if she'd really rather be anywhere but here, and a tall, compactly built sea dweller who looks like _she_ would rather everyone _else_ be anywhere but here.

The Grand Highblood glowers at the closed door. "There had better be a fucking atmosphere behind there that those of us with lungs can deal with."

The sea dweller rolls her eyes. "Of course there is. I'd be a lot more worried about this if there wasn't."

"Yeah?" the subjugglator demands.

"Because," the purpleblood says, "that means we're looking for airbreathers. We're not going to have to drag this belighted witch-hunt through upper command."

Vextruth shifts uncomfortably, and the Grand Highblood's glower darkens into a glare. "We," he says, "are going to drag this FUCKING INVESTIGATION wherever we FUCKING GOT TO to flush this out, Blackice. And if that takes us to the bridge, YOU'RE GOING IN FUCKING FIRST, while the rest of us pause to put on respirators."

She flinches with every shouted word, and when the indigo has fallen silent, rolls her eyes again. "We'll see," she says. "I doubt it will get that far. We haven't seen an aquatic on the wrong end of this thing in centuries."

"Then MAYBE we're DUE," the Grand Highblood spits.

"And maybe we'll actually figure something out if we do something other than stand in the hallway and fight?" Vextruth suggests, crossing his arms and leaning against a wall. "Really, your Levity, if you're going to insist on this 'mentor' act, you might as well set a _positive_ example for your scion."

The Grand Highblood and the sea dweller both turn to look at Gamzee as if they'd forgotten he was there, and he offers a sheepish wave in reply. The Grand Highblood grabs him by the horn - Gamzee's not quite quick enough to get away this time - and starts toward the door with a growl.

There's an ornate polearm in Blackice's hand almost before Gamzee sees her reaching for her specibus, and she moves quickly to block the door. "You can't _seriously_ intend to take him in there with you, Vitaldye," she says. "If he's double-digits, I'll eat your club. There is no way he could possibly qualify for this clearance. It is _completely_ against regulation."

The Grand Highblood pauses for a long moment, and then releases his hold on Gamzee and in a single fluid motion, has Blackice by the throat and pinned to the wall. "Who the FUCK do you THINK wrote SAID REGULATIONS?" he demands. The weapon is jolted from her grip by the impact; the Grand Highblood deftly kicks it out of reach and it skitters to a stop at Gamzee's feet. The legislacerator and the teal-blooded guard both appear to be trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, and second-hand electricity buzzes in Gamzee's horns.

"Why did you even write them if you had no intention of enforcing them?" Blackice chokes out angrily. "You _cannot_ take the boy in there."

"I FUCKING WELL CAN and I FUCKING WELL WILL."

She forces out a laugh around the hand on her throat. "You're going senile, Vitaldye. Had to happen eventually. You're awful old for a land dweller, aren't you?"

"And you're AWFUL FUCKING STUPID for someone who lived through the Age of Revolution," the indigo snarls, throwing her to the ground. He moves to tower over her. "Maybe you've got yourself a PRETTY SWEET GIG here as Securator over this ship, but I am STILL the GRAND FUCKING HIGHBLOOD."

He kicks at her, and turns to open the door, gesturing impatiently for the others to follow. Gamzee's not sure he likes the idea of stepping into what does indeed prove to be some sort of airlock with an irritated Grand Highblood, but after the whole dispute over whether he even gets to come along, it doesn't seem wise to refuse. Vextruth steps in after them, and after a moment, the sea dweller drags herself to her feet and joins them, one webbed hand raised gingerly to her throat. She's watching Gamzee as if she half expects him to attack her, too, and he meets her eyes with a slightly-too-wide-eyed gaze until, moments before he decides that baiting her was a bad idea, she looks away.

The outer door closes behind them, and as the inner opens, tepid water filters in around their shins. The block proves to be furnished as living quarters for an aquatic, a small portion flooded to about knee-height before dropping away into a deep area, opulent furnishings slightly obscured by the water.

The block's inhabitant - or rather, the block's inhabitant's corpse - floats in the middle of the deep end, purple eyes open and staring emptily at the ceiling and corkscrew horns dipping in and out of the water. Looking at the condition of the body, Gamzee begins to understand the secrecy.

The aquatic man is very definitely dead, his throat slashed deep enough that his whole head lolls at an awkward, unnatural angle, smokey, indistinct tendrils of purple still hanging around the body and radiating from the wound. The obviously fatal wound is not what draws Gamzee's eye and makes his throat close up in protest, though. Seemingly haphazard patches of the dead troll's clothing have been cut neatly away, and more blood lays thick across the exposed gray skin.

The Grand Highblood nods vaguely to Blackice. "Bring the fucker in," he growls.

"What, me?" she sniffs.

"You see any other gillbreathers here?" the Highblood demands with a guttural laugh. He glances over to the blue-blood. "Vextruth, you ever learn to swim?"

"No," the legislacerator says simply, with an ever-so-slightly smug look at Blackice.

She rolls her eyes and looks as if she might be about to further press the issue, but then slips down into the water and crosses to the body in a few powerful kicks. Blackice wraps a hand around the dead troll's horn, and drags the corpse back through the water. She grimaces as she deftly finds her feet and shoves the corpse through the water to drift to a stop in front of the Grand Highblood. "There's far more blood in the water over here than diffusion would account for," Blackice informs them. "He was killed in the shallows. I'd swear to it."

The grand Highblood stoops to grab the dead troll by the front of his shirt, fingers curling through the ragged edges of a gap in the fabric, and hauls it up to rest on a tabletop well above the waterline. "Or slashed up over here, anyway," he agrees, laying the body out to get a better look.

As his ancestor's look darkens, Gamzee looks over the body himself and nearly bites through his lip.

Neat rectangular patches of fabric have been sliced away at the breast, one shoulder, and broadly across the opposite hip. Faint scratches show on the skin where the material was cut away, but most of the blood - now washed away in moving the body through the water - comes from the deep, deliberate cuts in the middle of each patch of bare skin.

Whatever the dead sea dweller's sign was, there's no trace of it left on his clothing. It's been cut away; buttons and any jewelry that displayed the symbol have been removed.

And carved into the flesh, where the man's sign should be, are two neat, deep circles, nearly connected with a pair of arching lines.

Gamzee hasn't seen the Irons in nearly two perigees, and he cannot fathom why he's seeing it now.

He becomes aware of the Grand Highblood watching him casually, and he swallows, mouth suddenly very dry. What, exactly, has he shown in his reaction? Could he possibly have incriminated himself? Could he possibly have _not_ incriminated himself? What had crossed his painted face, as he saw his moirail's heretical symbol on the dead troll?

Please, please by the Messiahs and the Minstrels, _please_ let confusion have won over recognition, he hopes, he prays, fingers almost itching for the smooth feel of stardust. He looks up slowly, to meet the Grand Highblood's eyes briefly before looking away.

"That ain't - that's no sea dweller's sign, is it?" he says, slowly. "There... there aren't that many purple signs, I remember most of 'em. That ain't one."

"No," the Grand Highblood replies. He places a hand flat against the cancer-sign carved into the shoulder of the dead troll, just for a moment, before drawing it away and examining the dilute traces of blood on his palm. "Fucker's been unsigned. How long has this FUCKING INFESTATION been going on, Blackice?"

The aquatic woman grimaces. "We haven't had an designing on this ship in more than twenty-five sweeps," she replies. "As you well know. I seem to remember you enjoying yourself cleaning that one up."

Grumbling assent, the Grand Highblood glances to Vextruth, who shrugs. "Nothing since the case she's talking about," he agrees. "Well, a little graffiti a few sweeps back, but if you _read_ the report, it was conclusively proven under torture that the idiot didn't even know what the Irons were, he'd just picked it up from someone on-planet before conscription."

"Right, because there's NO PRECEDENT WHATSOEVER for these fuckers holding out under torture," the Grand Highblood growls. "It's _only_ the entire basis for their laughable excuse for a religion."

Vextruth scowls. "I know how to conduct an interrogation, your Levity. He didn't know what he was painting."

"Our killer here certainly did," Blackice adds, drawing their attention back to the present. She runs the back of one finger along the ragged edge of one of the corpse's ear-fins. "Suzerain Waverush wore some fairly abstract renditions of his symbol. All of them have been removed."

"What's missing, exactly?" the adult indigo asks.

"Shoulder and breast patches, obviously, and a stylized design across the hip," she begins. "Also an ear cuff, a signet ring, buttons at throat and cuffs, and a really terribly gaudy horn ornament. And..."

She grasps the dead troll's shoulder and yanks, flipping the body over. There's another patch of fabric missing across the upper back. This time, though, rather than a carefully carved set of Irons, there's a large patch of raw purple flesh. "That was a tattoo."

"How could you possibly know that?" Vextruth asks.

She shrugs. "Well, he had a tattoo of his symbol there two hundred sweeps ago, I assume he wouldn't have gotten it taken off after we broke."

"I didn't know you two had been quadranted," the Grand Highblood comments.

"I said, it was two hundred sweeps ago, and it didn't last long," she replies, glaring. "We parted on embarrassingly amicable terms, and haven't interacted on anything but a professional level in decades."

"Really," Vextruth says evenly.

"I do have an alibi for this case," she snaps. "You made sure to confirm that before you agreed to work with me at all. If you wish, you may check it again, although if you're just going to use this as an excuse to torment Firesong again..."

"No one's looking to harass your moirail," the Grand Highblood growls. "If either of us really suspected you, we wouldn't be so casual about it. You fucking know that."

Blackice glares, but doesn't reply.

"The real question," she adds after a moment, "is, how did the killer know about the tattoo?"

"We'll check out his current quadrant fills," Vextruth says. "That's as good a place to start as any."

"Right." The Grand Highblood nods sharply. "I expect a prime suspect by the evening, of course."

"Of course," the legislacerator replies.

The Grand Highblood wades back over to the airlock. Gamzee wonders if he should follow, if this means that they're leaving - and really, he wouldn't mind getting away from the bloody, decorated corpse -

(death itself is hardly beautiful sometimes, but to dip fingers into color that is slowly approaching room temperature and trace words and shapes transmutes it into divine beauty)

\- but his ancestor simply pauses and runs a hand over the door frame. "No sign of forced entry?"

"Another good sign that he was killed by someone he knew," Vextruth points out. "If that thing had been broken, the corridor would be ankle-deep by now."

"So he went and let the fucker in," the Grand Highblood agrees. "That is, I'm ASSUMING you've already cleared anyone with the override codes for this?"

Vextruth rolls his eyes. "With all due respect, Magister Vitaldye, you are not the only competent troll in the fleet."

The Grand Highblood looks back over his shoulder, and smiles very slowly. "I stand fucking corrected. Sure you won't consider transferring back to the recruitment wing? Lead a course or two in the academy? We've got some sharp legislaceration students this sweep."

"There aren't _that_ many capable people around," Vextruth says. "I go, and this ship's liable to fall into anarchy while Blackice flutters her fins."

"If you really try, you might be able to be a little more obnoxious," the sea dweller sneers. "Please, Vitaldye, take him with you."

The Grand Highblood smirks. "How the fuck do you two get anything done when I'm not around?"

"Without you coming in and ignoring regulations and generally making things difficult, you mean?" Blackice asks.

"Yeah, that." It's a little impressive, Gamzee has to think, to watch the Grand Highblood win a staring contest against two people at the same time. "Anything else you managed to notice before I got here?"

"There should be a preliminary report waiting for you in your quarters," Vextruth replies. "I know you like to look things over before you see other people's impressions, but the report's ready."

"Good. I think I've seen all I need to here," the indigo says. He glances to Gamzee. "Come on, kid, let's go get settled in."

With a glance at the other two adults, Gamzee hurries to follow his ancestor.

The Grand Highblood pauses only briefly when Gamzee stops to shake the water out of his shoes, looking back at his descendent in annoyance before continuing down the corridor with soggy steps. Gamzee manages to get most of the water to drain out of his own footwear and hurries to catch up.

"Hey, sir," Gamzee says after a moment's hesitation, "what was motherfucking happening there?" He's not entirely sure he wants an answer, but not asking at all is unquestionably worse.

The older troll doesn't so much as glance at Gamzee as he replies. "Kid, I had to stare down the chief of legislacerators for this ship and knock the wing's Securator into a wall to even get you in there, what makes you think I'm about to discuss it in the middle of a fucking public corridor?"

"Oh." Gamzee nods slowly, although his ancestor is still pointedly not looking at him. "That mean you're gonna get your explanation on later, then?"

"Maybe, if you're not acting like a total dumbfuck," the Highblood replies, shrugging one massive shoulder.

Gamzee's not entirely sure what, exactly, acting like a total dumbfuck would or wouldn't entail, but he figures that asking would be firmly in total dumbfuck territory, so he doesn't.

When they reach their destination, it's a suite with the too-perfect decor and furnishings of blocks kept in readiness but very rarely lived in. The decor is in the by-now familiar motif of spilled blood, although the flat, bright colors tell Gamzee that most of it is done with artificial dyes, only in one or two places does it show the dark blotching of real blood, showing evidence of the art from from which, apparently, the Grand Highblood chose to take his name. This is a little comforting; Gamzee doesn't feel quite so much like he is intruding on his ancestor's private space, although it is clear that this is a space set aside for the Grand Highblood's use.

They enter into what appears to be a combination adminis- and hospitalityblock. The Grand Highblood gestures at one of a few doors. "Your block is through there, until we get this sorted," he growls, distractedly, and moves to the desk to badger the computer into what Gamzee has to assume is cooperation. After a moment of being ignored, Gamzee goes through the indicated door to find himself in a space which can be called a respiteblock rather than a closet mostly by virtue of the recuperacoon that takes up about half of the available floor space. Gamzee looks for a moment at the shelves and garment rack that line the opposite wall, and decides he might as well keep his stuff in his sylladex. He won't be staying here long, with any luck at all.

He tugs off one gauntlet and dips an exploratory hand into the sopor slime of the recuperacoon. Gamzee doesn't really expect any problem with the slime, of course; no recuperacoon in the Grand Highblood's personal quarters is going to have stale slime or noticeable impurities. And sure enough, the mix is good.

Too good.

Gamzee freezes, as the numb warmth sinks into his skin, faster and more intensely than he's known in ages now. It's a purely physical sensation, of course, barely holds a candle to the way it would feel to have that content muzziness soaking into his sponge rather than his skin, but it still feels awfully good.

It takes him a long moment to care enough about consequences to act, and then he all but yanks his hand out of the recuperacoon opening, reaching for the strigil with the other hand. He scrapes the slime away, almost painfully forceful with the hard edge of the utensil against bony knuckles, and stares into the electric-green sludge for a long moment.

His first instinct is to simply ignore it, not say anything, use the 'coon as it is that day and not court trouble - except he knows he'll sleep like the dead in a suddenly doubled sopor dose, and this is pretty much the worst time to risk oversleeping and not being able to explain it.

Besides, that's assuming that the Grand Highblood doesn't know about this already, or doesn't realize it on his own.

Pulling his gauntlet back on, Gamzee hesitantly steps back out into the the other block, where he finds the Grand Highblood seated at the desk with his chin in his hands, frowning slightly over whatever he's reading on the screen.

"Sir? Uh, your Levity?" Gamzee says hesitantly, pausing in the doorway.

"Yeah, kid?" The Grand Highblood doesn't look up.

"Is my recuperacoon s'posed to have regular sopor dosage?" he asks. "Like motherfucking regular for other people? Only I never got my dose changed up again back on our ship, so..."

Distractedly, the Grand Highblood shifts, so that his chin is propped up on only one hand, the other fiddling with the keyboard in front of him. "Fuck, no it ain't. You going to sleep already?"

"No?" Gamzee replies, fidgeting, picking at his nails. He's got some sopor stuck under them, he knows it. "Just was checking things out, that's all."

"I'll get it switched out," his ancestor promises. "Good job telling me, kid. We might make a responsible adult of you yet."

Gamzee can't help smiling a little at the praise, wary of a shift in the Grand Highblood's mood. When the adult's vague irritation remains fixed on a target other than Gamzee, he swallows, and brings up the question again, the one he'd asked earlier.

"What _was_ going on with that murder?" he asks. "I mean, they don't go and call you in every time a highblooded motherfucker gets his ass killed, do they?"

The Grand Highblood smirks, tapping out something on the keyboard. "Nah, if they did, Vextruth and Blackice wouldn't be half so pissy about it," he replies, and looks up to fix Gamzee with a piercing look. "You ever seen a body marked up like that?"

Gamzee shakes his head. "Not like that," he says.

After a long moment of studying the younger troll, the Grand Highblood shrugs. "It's a cult of lowblood-supremisist terrorists who've built a religious movement around a minute and thirty-eight seconds of mostly-incoherent profanity," he replies, and it's far enough from any description Gamzee would have expected that the eight-sweep-old doesn't have to feign the look of surprise on his face. "They call themselves 'Suffererists,' every so often they'll regroup and decide to cut down a few highbloods in the stupidest way possible. Huh, and people say shit about the Cult of the Mirthful Messiahs. Crazy, eh?"

"I... ain't never heard about that," Gamzee replies, more confused than ever. It doesn't sound like the cultists he's dealt with a little in the past. And it doesn't sound like...

Well, if it's something Karkat's mixed up in, Karkat needs him more than Gamzee had realized.

"You shouldn't have," is the reply. "Her Imperious Condescension decided a long time ago that the best way to control the situation is to suppress all knowledge of them."

Which at least fits with what Gamzee knows about those who worship Karkat's ancestor.

"Oh."

"More tenacious than dangerous, but they wig the Empress the fuck out," the Grand Highblood says, and as Gamzee meets his eyes for a moment, there's something in the elder Capricorn's expression that says it's not just the Condesce that feels that way.

The next few hours pass with the Grand Highblood more or less completely ignoring Gamzee, who isn't entirely sure whether to be annoyed or relieved when the elder troll goes off near morning, presumably to continue the investigation in some capacity, and leaves him behind. Out of boredom, Gamzee tries the computer. He finds it wanting a password, and he neither trusts his non-existent hacking ability nor undervalues his continued survival enough to try and get around such a restriction on the Grand Highblood's computer system.

There continues to be no sign of the Grand Highblood as Gamzee begins to fidget. A cursory inspection of the suite finds no food service, at least none that he can figure out how to get anything from, and he's seriously starting to suspect that his ancestor has forgotten him for the time being.

If the layout of this ship is as familiar as it seems to be, there should be an accessible mess hall not too far from here, Gamzee's fairly sure. He hunts out a pan of blank paper on the desk, and a pen, a wickedly pointed fountain pen that looks more like something Lazapi would use as a weapon than like anything anyone should seriously use as a writing utensil. He also isn't able to find any ink.

Gamzee hesitates for a moment, staring at the steel nib of the pen and at his own hand. Well, if there's no ink prepared, it's not like he hasn't written in his own blood before -

(he could go find someone else's blood, of course, but he has notes to write, things to arrange, and every minute he spends hunting down where he left one of the bodies - or one of the still-living - is a minute that the murderess walks unhindered. Or is it a minute that his palecrush continues to ignore him? he's not even sure anymore)

\- so he presses the nib of the pen into the pad of his thumb until indigo blood wells up, waits until the pen's drawn up a usable amount of blood, and then sticks the injured digit in his mouth as he scratches out a note that, with the unfamiliar writing utensil, is even more uneven and blotchy than his usual irregular handwriting.

gOnE To fInD FoOd  
I FiGuRe i sHoUlD Be bAcK QuIcK ThOuGh  
bUt iF YoU GeT BaCk fIrSt tHaT's wHeRe i'M At

He's not entirely sure how to sign it, and ends up scratching in both his name and his sign, just in case. It seems a little far-fetched that the Grand Highblood wouldn't know his name by now, but he's fairly sure the adult's never actually called him by name. And, come to think of it, he didn't know the Grand Highblood's name until tonight, so maybe it's not so out of the question that the reverse is true.

Gamzee leaves the note propped up against the keyboard and slips out into the light foot traffic of the corridor.

He has to backtrack a few times when he gets himself turned around - apparently the two barracks-carriers are not as similar in layout as he at first thought, or possibly he's on a different section of the ship than he expected, because the pattern of corridors is vaguely familiar but not an exact match. He doesn't begin to be worried, though, until he notices the crowd starting to thin.

There's a very real possibility, he realizes, that he's lost. This is not good, by any stretch of the imagination.

As he turns to try and retrace his steps yet again, he hears a voice, and looks over to see a green-blood with blocky horns beckoning to him. "You. 'Scuse me. Capricorn, right?"

"...Yeah?" Gamzee responds, perplexed. He pauses, looking at the other troll, who doesn't look much older than Gamzee, especially considering his color; maybe a couple of sweeps older, if that.

The other troll looks away quickly, once it's clear he's got Gamzee's attention; there's still a certain urgency in how he stands, halfway through a doorway and holding onto the door frame with both hands. "Can I... can I talk to you? If you have a moment? I'm really sorry if I'm interrupting anything..."

Gamzee glances around, and cautiously steps closer. "What is it, motherfucker?"

The green flinches a little at the words, still not meeting Gamzee's eyes. "Is it true?" he asks. "The Suzerain has been killed?"

"What's-his-name, Waverush?" Gamzee asks. "The violet guy? Yeah, he's pretty fucking dead."

The green-blood looks up, over Gamzee's shoulder, and his expression shifts to something almost smug, almost self-satisfied. Before Gamzee can try to interpret this, though, someone shoves him, hard, from behind, and the green grabs him and yanks him through the doorway.

Gamzee's too startled for an all-important moment to react, then he's struggling to free himself from the other troll's grip even as he hears the door closing behind him. He gets one arm free as the fire of chucklevoodoos begins to build in his horns, but hesitates for a moment too long trying to decide whether to reach for his strife deck or to his hornbed to focus the psychic attack. Something heavy and hard strikes him across the bases of his horns, interrupting the building psychic energy with lances of pain and sending streaks of white and flashes of indigo across his vision, and then hits him again at the base of the skull, and everything goes black.


	17. Peace of the Previous World

He awakes cold and stiff, head aching from the base of his neck up through his horns, curled awkwardly on a hard floor in an enclosed space. It's dark, very dark, when he manages to pry his eyes open; he can't make out much except for the faint outline of a door, traced in light a very short way away; he's facing it, and can feel a wall at his back.

Faint noises come through the door, though he can't quite make them out. It takes him a moment to determine whether this is because they're muffled by the solid surface, or if his ears are just still ringing and his head throbbing too much to make sense of outside information.

Although once he thinks about it, his head doesn’t actually hurt as badly as he might have expected; his mind is scattered and vague, and there's a definite ache that underlies everything, but there's a kind of cushion between the hurt and his actual thoughts and between his thoughts and the rest of existence, a kind of soft buffer between him and the world, all smooth edges and soft colors and...

And there is no way that the idea that he hasn't felt this good in perigees should cross his thinkpan when he's been attacked and kidnapped and left to lie unconscious in - in whatever this is, a closet? - for who even knows how long, but there's some not-so-small slice of him that thinks _exactly_ that. Gamzee struggles a little, against nothing more than his own gangly, suddenly supremely uncoordinated limbs, and manages to lever himself into a sitting position; he goes a little light-headed from the sudden movement, and faint glimmers of color edge his vision in the dark.

Gamzee has spent as much of his life on sopor as off of it. He knows what a sopor high feels like, and he most definitely has slime in his veins at the moment.

If not for the calming effect of the drug, he'd probably be flipping the fuck out with panic over the idea. Except that if he hadn't been drugged with the exact substance he'd been forbidden on pain of death to use, he wouldn't have as much to panic about? Except for the whole kidnapped and stuffed in a closet bit, he supposes that might be something to get his flail on about.

Yeah, that's something to worry about, he's pretty fucking sure. He's not so high that he can't process the idea of being held captive and quite possibly in mortal danger - because what the fuck else are these people going to do with him, if they don't intend to kill him sooner or later?

Ransom him? Gamzee's pretty sure the Grand Highblood isn't exactly the negotiating type.

Slowly, trying to distract himself, Gamzee starts feeling himself over for injuries; the back of his head is tender, and the orange of his horns, as might be expected; he's got a few other bumps and bruises, and there's a spot in the crook of one arm that's got the deep ache of a narrow puncture wound and is crusted around with dried blood - blood which, on inspection, tastes rather too heavily laden with sopor, even considering the state he's in right now.

But no broken bones, or deep cuts or crushing injuries. He supposes that's either a very promising or a very troubling sign.

Carefully, he crawls over to the door, and puts one ear to it as well as his curving horns will allow. He can hear things a little better from here.

"...highblood ... tearing the place apart, we can't keep him around here forever..."

"...got to wait for Wiredusk, it's her deal..."

"...wakes up and we're all screwed..."

"...down, not on the amount of distilled slime we shot him up..."

"...I still don't see the point if they don't know what's happening to them?"

He's not sure what to make of the snips of conversation he catches, not sure he want to be able to understand what's going on, either. There's nothing he can do about it either way, right? Might as well just chill in here, not stress himself...

Is that the sopor talking?

Fuck. _Fuck_ , it probably is. Concentrate, Gamzee.

Concentrate on what?

Miserably, Gamzee sits back away from the door and draws his knees up to his chest. He leans back against the wall, winces at the contact, and drops his head to rest on his folded knees instead.

Eventually, the door opens; Gamzee blinks in the sudden light and hides his face to shield his eyes.

"He's sitting up, I don't like that," says a voice. Gamzee thinks he recognizes it as the green-blood from earlier.

"Still looks out of it, though," says another. "'Sides, he's a scrawny kid, you don't think we can handle him?"

"You weren't there when we took him down, Wirey, his 'voodoos pack a punch," replies the first voice.

"With a quarter flask of distilled in him?" asks the second.

"That was hours and hours ago," comments a third voice.

Gamzee looks up slowly, his eyes finally adjusting; sure enough, he sees the blocky-horned green from earlier, with a stocky rustblood looking over his shoulder. The troll standing square in the middle, of the door, though, looking down at Gamzee with an unpleasantly thoughtful look on her face, is a tall, thin woman with spindly horns and ropy yellow scars tracing along her forearms and the sides of her face.

She steps forward, drops into an easy squat before him, hints of psionic energy crawling along her fingers. The yellowblood stares at Gamzee for a long moment, and he looks back with glassy eyes.

"You understand why you're here?" she asks.

Gamzee shakes his head slightly, pauses, shrugs. It takes him a couple of tries to find his voice; his tongue feels too big for his dry mouth. "You motherfuckers don't like me, I guess," he finally says.

She quirks an eyebrow upward. "Good guess. Any idea why?"

"Shit, no. I ain't never seen any of you motherfuckers before," he replies. "Have I? I don't even never hang 'round this ship, Gee-Aich brought me in..."

"Poking around in someone else's blood feud, that was your first mistake," she hisses.

"Didn't fucking mean to," Gamzee says. "I tell you, though, I can't imagine any troll what legitimately carries that sign likin' what you're motherfucking doing with it."

The scarred yellowblood doesn't move, but there's a flash of white-yellow light and something strikes Gamzee across the face. "Shut your mouth, blaspheming clown," she snarls.

Gamzee's blood-pusher is beating faster, and his head seems to be clearing a bit more; excitement and fear always burned through sopor faster, he remembers, and some irrational corner of his thinkpan is nagging that he needs to find more.

The woman looks up at her companions. "I want to do it."

"Wiredusk," begins the rustblood, in a slightly alarmed voice.

"I claim right of sacrifice," she snarls.

"Wirey, you already killed the Suzerain. You've taken revenge," says the green. "Let someone else do this one."

Wiredusk's eyes flash - literally, lighting up a moment with yellow-white. "That was for taking me out. I want satisfaction for being put in that rig in the first place."

The other two exchange a look, and the green sighs. "Fine, but he's the last you get. The rest of us are getting impatient, too."

Grinning fiercely, the yellowblood turns back to Gamzee, who suddenly finds his wrists ringed with psionic power and forced up and back, against the wall. Wiredusk drops to one knee, leaning forward; Gamzee desperately tries to force through the cloud of sopor to find the fear he knows he can cripple her with.

She produces a wickedly pointed knife from a strife specibus.

Gamzee grasps at the fleeting edge of his own power; it hardly seems possible that the sopor hasn't been burned off, the way his blood-pusher is beating fit to burst, but the chucklevoodoos remain just out of reach.

"Fuck you," she says, sounding strangely detached, as if this is a litany she's learned by heart. She braces her free hand flat against Gamzee's chest, resting her palm against his symbol; he whines a high-pitched noise of distress and tries to back away, but of course the wall is already at his back, his hands pinned. "Fuck you, highbloods," Wiredusk repeats, "you think you're going to fucking hide behind your color? You're not worthy of the fucking signs you wear, they don't mean a fucking thing."

And the _fuck, fuck, fuck, motherfuck, no,_ of Gamzee's internal monolog blends with her recitation of whatever the fuck that is.

"One day you'll be the signless ones, we'll see how fucking brave you are then, bastards," she intones, bringing the knife down to score a line through the fabric of Gamzee's shirt. The tip of the blade bites into his skin, raising a line of indigo -

(when the sister comes at him with claws out, it's so not the time to wonder about whether or not they could be friends, because he's not friends with bitches intent on spilling his motherfucking special blood and that's just the way it motherfucking is

He finally breaks through and his horns sing with chucklevoodoos as he kicks out, slamming both feet into the yellow's stomach even as her psychic grip on his hands falters. The knife falls from her fingers and Gamzee scrambles after it, retrieving it, pushing more power through the lingering haze of sopor to feed the fear-song in the cores of his horns. His attacker is trying to retreat, naked panic on her scarred face, and he lunges forward, grabs her by the throat, and bashes her head against a wall. There's a glorious _crack_ and dull yellow runs down, over her hair and face and neck and Gamzee's hands, coming from a horn broken off nearly to the base.

She's still moving, so he slams her into the wall again for good measure, and this time the crack is deeper, more muted, the sound of bone and not horn, and she goes very still. Gamzee grabs the piece of broken horn and turns to the other two captors, knife in one hand and horn in the other, and an expression that isn't quite a grin and isn't quite a snarl on his face, showing rather a lot of teeth.

The stiletto of horn is slick in his grasp, slick with blood, and Gamzee raises it to his mouth and licks away the yellow from his fingers and his makeshift weapon, his eyes not leaving the other two. Let's see now, what was it he'd done before? Right, cast the chucklevoodoos like a net, twist and tangle the fire and song around all the little chinks and splinters at the surface of the others' minds, so they're not so much overwhelmed by raw fear as _caught_ by all the little things they were afraid of, anyway...

The green makes a low noise of distress in the back of his throat, and it seems to Gamzee that the guy's singing a perfect harmony to the fear-song and he laughs, shifting his grip on the knife and moving toward the other troll.

The third Sufferist, the big rustblood, is actually the first to gather his wits - which seems a little odd to the too-lucid bit in the back of Gamzee's pan that's watching all this as if in slow motion, as the lower-blooded troll should be more susceptible to the psychic attack, but maybe it's just that he was concentrating more on the green. The rustblood - a few inches taller than Gamzee, and much more massive - moves toward him, a pair of joined staffs flashing into his hands from a specibus card.

One staff, Gamzee notes vaugely, has a small smear of indigo across it. The ache in the back of his head seems to intensify just for a moment, throbbing in memory of the strike and in time to Gamzee's vascular pump. He doesn't so much turn to take on the attacker as step unsteadily toward him and lash out and let the other troll's momentum carry him onto the tip of his friend's severed horn, which lodges just below the big troll's ribcage until Gamzee yanks it downward, tearing his opponent open.

Once he's done that, he thinks maybe he won't disembowel people in the future so much. It's not as elegant as he'd thought it might be. In fact, it's kind of disgusting in a way that the clean colors of blood never have been. Maybe there's a reason those bits are on the inside.

Gamzee leaves the horn in place, the yellow blood still leaking from its core mixing with the red-brown of his more recent victim, and kicks the still-gasping body of the rustblood out of his way, the best he can in the narrow space.

The last Suffererist - the first Suffererist Gamzee had encountered - the last troll standing - the _green_ has managed to draw a broad-bladed knife, almost a cleaver, and is holding it in front of himself defensively.

Gamzee sighs. "You ain't really thinkin' you're gonna do much with that, are you?" he asks softly. His head hurts. He doesn't regret any of this yet, but he's starting to realize that he will later.

"It's more than you've got," the other troll spits. Hah, give him ten points for bravado.

Gamzee laughs, looks down for a moment at the dagger in his hand and spins it in his palm, feeling the hilt settle against his thumb as it slides back into place. "This little thing?" he asks. "I AIN'T EVEN USED IT YET, MOTHERFUCKER. And both your friends. ARE DEAD."

He advances, slinging as much chucklevoodoo as he can manage - and maybe he pushed himself too hard too fast because his horns are aching more than burning now and the other troll looks far too confident. Growling a little, Gamzee lets the focused approach drop and just lets the power leak and flow and soak into the other troll's mind, and that gets a little more response.

The knife is still held out, between them, but it's a slashing weapon, a chopping weapon, and the tip at arm's length is less than worrying. Gamzee steps, trips forward, catches himself with a grace he hardly remembers he had. Somehow he's got his hand around the other troll's wrist when he regains his equilibrium, the wrist of the hand holding the knife, and Gamzee squeezes until he feels bones grate and the knife drops.

Across the back of Gamzee's hand, the scratch he'd gotten off of Arsast what seems like an impossibly long time ago opens, starts to sluggishly leak indigo.

Gamzee brings his own knife, still edged with his own color from where the yellow tried to carve him up, and rests it gently against the other troll's throat. Wonderful, how that stops the greenblood's struggles. Instead, the rebel bastard glares at Gamzee, who glares back.

"Why," he growls, "why green. WHY THE FUCK. Am I always culling. MOTHERFUCKING GREEN-BLOODS?"

The pinned troll spits at him.

Gamzee presses a little harder with the tip of the knife, coaxing out a bead of green, and enjoying the way his jailor-turned-prisoner's eyes widen in fear and pain, and then close entirely. The clown makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a purr. "I didn't motherfucking need to be your enemy, you know," he points out. "I'm generally a pretty nice motherfucker. LOOK, I'LL EVEN PROVE IT."

He leans in, until his face is nearly touching the other's; he'd be a little concerned about being in biting distance if he was in any state of mind to be concerned at the moment, but he's not, so he doesn't care. Now, what was it, what was it the not completely shithive maggots worshipers of Karkat's ancestor had used as a blessing? He'd heard it a few times, before he'd managed to run the miserable things off.

Ah, right. "May you motherfucking find the peace of the previous world," he breathes, just barely audible, and has the satisfaction of seeing the green eyes fly open in shock and confusion.

Then he shoves the knife home, and warm green blood runs out over his hand as the other troll chokes and gurgles and dies.

Gamzee holds the knife in place until the body stops moving except for occasional twitches. Then he lets go with both hands, letting the corpse crumple to the floor. The fire's going out of his horns now, now that there's no motherfucker left here threatening him. Now the giddiness that fueled the violence is fading and the cold, rational bit in the back of his mind that directed the violence is shutting up and he's just... just Gamzee.

Now his head just hurts, and his horns hurt in the bad way, and there's the taste of hangover and blood in his mouth and he sinks to his knees on the bloody floor. He braces himself on his hands for a moment, before his elbows fold as surely as his knees did, and he's curled around himself like some kind of shellbeast, his painted forehead dipping to the still-spreading rivulets of green.

Gamzee must have dozed, or passed out, or something, because the next thing he's aware of is someone grabbing him, a single huge hand tangling in the back of his shirt and his hair, sending lances of pain through his scalp and cutting off his air. He struggles briefly in panic and is shaken, sharply, once, hard enough to rattle his teeth. Then he's pulled into a kneeling position, head forced back to look up. Gamzee blinks hard, trying to clear his vision, and finds himself meeting a pair of deep indigo eyes framed in paint.

"What the mirthforsaken fuck HAPPENED in here?" the Grand Highblood demands. He hauls Gamzee up further, off his knees but not quite high enough to easily get his footing. The younger troll twists in the grip, both hands tugging at the front of his shirt to try and relieve the choking, bruising pressure on his windpipe. The fabric begins to rip further across the front, spreading from the neat slice along to one side of his sign.

No sooner has Gamzee managed to twist a leg around to get his foot on the ground, taking his own weight, does the Grand Highblood sling him against the wall. Gamzee slides to a sitting position, cradling his head gingerly in both hands.

"Do you FUCKING ENJOY disgracing your bloodline?" the Grand Highblood snarls, standing over him. "HOW FUCKING LONG have you BEEN IN CAHOOTS with this trash?"

Gamzee looks up quickly, the pain in his head and horns and neck and shoulders momentarily forgotten. "I- what?" he sputters. "Nah, sir, you got it all motherfucking wrong, they was going to fucking kill me!"

A kick catches him in the ribs, and Gamzee tries in vain to move away from his ancestor, managing only to back himself into a corner. "You fucking know better than to joke with me, kid. Vextruth's lackey say you, you little shit, I had you fucking followed. We know you met up with that grass-blooded traitor."

"I didn't know the motherfucker!" Gamzee objects, hunching in on himself. "He fucking tricked me and clobbered me and drugged me, and I killed his ass, and I still don't even fucking know his motherfucking name!"

His ancestor slams a heavily booted foot into the wall beside Gamzee's head. "HOW fucking STUPID do you THINK I AM?"

"It's true!" Gamzee objects.

The adult's boot draws back again and swings, directly at Gamzee's head this time; Gamzee ducks and catches the kick in his already bruised horn. Tears well in his eyes as the Grand Highblood snarls, "Then HOW FUCKING STUPID do you expect me to BELIEVE YOU ARE?"

"Pretty damn stupid, ok?" Gamzee chokes. "I'm a fucking panshattered clowntard with more slime than sponge in my fucking head, and it's a motherfucking miracle I made it to eight sweeps without falling face-first in a six-inch puddle and drowning! Ok? There is literally nothing I do in life that is not fucking up!" The words catch in his throat, over and over, and he keeps forcing them out, words that in his moirail's mouth had been practically endearments, reason to pity and look out for Gamzee, twisted into the self-condemnation that is his only form of self-defense.

He swallows, wiping at tears and getting a smear of pain and other people's blood across the back of his hand in the process. "But I ain't one'a those crazy sign-stealing cultists, sir, you gotta believe me! I'm a motherfucking clown! I'm circus, like you! And right now I just wanna go and fix my face."

"He's telling the truth."

The Grand Highblood turns to look over his shoulder; by leaning over a little, Gamzee can see past his ancestor to spot Vextruth leaning against the door frame, one hand casually resting against his hornbed.

"You're sure," the Grand Highblood says, only half a question.

"Repeat what you just said, trainee," Vextruth instructs, looking at Gamzee. "The pertinent bits. No need to include all of the 'you have to believe me' parts."

Gamzee looks up at his ancestor, who nods impatiently, and takes a deep breath. "I didn't know nothing about the murderers, I wandered off like a motherfucking idiot and they grabbed me and drugged me. When I woke up, the yellow bitch tried to up and kill me, so I went and killed her back. An' then I culled her friends. An' then I collapsed again."

The blue-blood watches him for a long moment. "He believes what he's saying, at least," Vextruth finally says, turning his attention back to the Grand Highblood. "I've known a few trolls who could lie to me, but none this young, and not with you standing over them, your Levity."

The Grand Highblood grunts a kind of noncommittal assent. Vextruth shrugs.

"It would appear that your descendent has inherited your knack for stumbling into messes and stabbing your way out again."

"Only stabbed two of them," Gamzee mutters.

The Grand Highblood rolls his eyes, and stoops to grab Gamzee by one arm and pull him to his feet. Resting a heavy arm around Gamzee's shoulders, the older Capricorn steers him out of the makeshift cell and across the block outside. He ignores the junior legislacerators working the block over and shoves Gamzee into an empty corner, pinning him to the wall with one hand on each of Gamzee's shoulders.

"You STAY HERE," he orders. "Do not fucking TOUCH ANYTHING. Do not SAY ANYTHING unless instructed to by Overseer Vextruth or MYSELF. And FOR MINSTRELS' SAKE, do not fucking WANDER OFF AGAIN, or so help me mirth I WILL END YOU. Do you understand?"

Gamzee nods, a little carefully as the motion intensifies the headache, which is not helped by being shouted at, either. And speaking of being shouted at...

"DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND?"

"Yeah, sir, I got you," Gamzee says, wincing away as much as he can while pinned against the wall.

The Grand Highblood releases his hold, letting Gamzee slouch down the wall to sit on the floor, and stocks off to the closet full of bodies. Gamzee sits, picking at a loose thread at the cuff of his pants, trying to ignore the curious stares of the junior legislacerators.

"We got any IDs yet?" the Grand Highblood demands.

Vextruth's reply comes quickly. "The yellow's that matesprit we heard about, the one Waverush pulled out of a pilot hookup a few perigees ago. I've sent the other two's signs and descriptions to Blackice; her people should have names for us soon, and we'll work on finding any other known associates..."

With a sigh, Gamzee leans sideways against the corner, trying to cushion his aching head in the crook of one arm. His mouth feels dry, and tastes sour-sharp, and he desperately wants more sopor. Or not to have been dosed in the first place, but mostly just more sopor.

He can't want more. That is so far from a possibility it's not a miracle worth hoping for.

He wants to sleep. (He wants sopor.) He wants his head and his horns not to hurt. (He wants sopor.) He wants to stop worrying. (He wants sopor.)

If Gamzee was slightly less terrified of his ancestor, he's be on his feet by now, although he's not sure whether it would be to acquire more of the drug or remove himself from the situation or what. Ridiculously, impossibly, Gamzee kind of suspects that the answer might be that he'd be looking for his moirail, because he's not exactly what you could call stable, and sweet mirth does he need a shooshpap and a hug and a whole load of answers.

Answers, Gamzee thinks, would be just as sweet as sopor about now.


	18. How to Express his Craving

As fear gives way to fatigue, Gamzee dozes, letting his mind wander without him. He's not sure how long he's left to sit in the corner of the block, out of the others' way, before someone shakes him. He jumps, hissing incoherent threat, as he tries to retreat further into the corner.

"Calm down, trainee," says Vextruth, almost obnoxiously calm himself. He's down on one knee in front of the younger troll, one arm braced against his raised leg and the other hand drawing back, out of the now-wakeful Gamzee's reach. Gamzee blinks a few times, and sheepishly pulls his knees up to his chest, hugging his legs to him. "I just need to ask you a few questions."

Wide-eyed, Gamzee nods slowly. That's ok. The Grand Highblood said he could talk to the legislacerator, and Overseer Vextruth shouts a lot less than Gamzee's ancestor does. Gamzee figures he doesn't mind a few questions.

Well, there's the fact that apparently it's very hard to lie to Vextruth, but Gamzee's not at all sure he's got the mental wherewithal to try and lie to much of _anyone_ right now.

The Overseer pulls a small bottle of green fluid, still mostly full, from his sylladex, holding it up with two fingers hooked around the neck of the flask just below the cap. "You know what this is?" he asks.

Gamzee has to fight back the urge to grab at it. "Sopor," he says, his voice cracking a little. "Prob'ly distilled, the regular sort ain't that runny."

"Is this what they dosed you with?"

"I think so?" Gamzee's aware of his voice wavering a little. "Motherfuckers already hit me over the head by then, I didn't see... but I motherfucking think so."

"Why?" the older troll asks, and Gamzee tilts his head to one side in confusion.

"What?"

"If you didn't see, why do you think they used sopor? How do you know you were drugged at all?"

Gamzee's eyes are still fastened on the flask of electric green in Vextruth's hand. "'Cause I woke up high off my motherfucking ass, maybe?" he snaps angrily, fists balling in the fabric of his pants. To hide the way his hands shake, or to keep himself from grabbing, he's not really sure.

Vextruth's brows knit together. "Are you certain?" he asks, and he sounds awfully confused for someone who knows truth when he hears it. "We were able to track you down because you were fear-mongering, trainee. Sopor suppresses psychic function." He gives the flask a little shake, punctuating his words.

"It weren't that much. I came down pretty fast when the motherfucking bitch tried to kill me," Gamzee says, making a little movement toward the bottle in Vextruth's hand and just barely stopping himself. "I fucking know sopor, sir."

"The little idiot's got himself a history with the fucking stuff," growls a deep voice, and Gamzee looks up, wondering how long the Grand Highblood had been standing over them. "When I picked him up, he was walking around on three flasks of baked."

"But I been clean since then!" Gamzee insists, a note of panic in his voice. "I didn't want no sopor now, I didn't ask for none, they was just trying to keep me under control so I wouldn't flip the fuck out before they could kill me...."

Even as he speaks, professing his innocence, his eyes flick back to the flask that the Overseer is still holding. The light reflecting off the surface of the bottle seems almost to pulse in time to the throbbing in Gamzee's head, and he leans forward just a little.

The Grand Highblood laughs, a harsh, barking chuckle. "Put it away before you lose a hand, Vextruth," he says, to Gamzee's mixed relief and irrational disappointment.

With a nod, the other adult captchalogues the flask of sopor. "He was being truthful about everything but not wanting the drug," he says, standing up. "That part's complicated. I'd guess it's more that he's not sure how to express his craving than that he's trying to be deceptive."

"Yeah, I fucking figured," Gamzee's ancestor agrees. He looks down at the young troll sitting crumpled on the floor. "If I send you back to our quarters, are you going to stay the fuck put?"

"Uh huh," Gamzee says. Not the most eloquent reply, but he figures it gets the message across.

The Grand Highblood beckons curtly to one of the junior legislacerators, who quickly comes over. "Take the kid back to my quarters," he instructs, then grabs her by the front of her jacket, yanking her up almost off her feet and growling, "and if you let him wander the fuck off, I swear I will cull everyone you pity while you watch. I do not have time to spend another day looking for him."

She nods, blue eyes wide, and the huge subjugglator releases her.

Gamzee climbs stiffly to his feet, steadying himself for a moment with one hand flat against the wall as his head swims. His escort gives him a look of mixed curiosity and trepidation, and Gamzee can't quite find it within himself to smile, to do anything to reassure her.

 

By the time they make it back to the Grand Highblood's suite, Gamzee's head is not so much swimming as sinking, and he's only half-aware of his surroundings as he heads toward the door of the tiny respiteblock he's been assigned, fumbling at the clasp of his ruff with clumsy fingers as he goes. He doesn't bother to see what his escort does with herself; Gamzee doesn't really bother to examine his reasoning on that because examining his reasoning would involve thinking, which is a little difficult at the moment, but he figures it's probably got something to do with the fact that in the past day, he's been dragged halfway across the fleet and then kidnapped, drugged, and nearly murdered in his moirail's ancestor's name -

(he wants help, just wants a little support from the troll with the miracle-scarlet blood, and what does he get? An assassin, courtesy of the same)

\- beaten, and accused of conspiring with his own attackers, and under the circumstances he shouldn't have to be particularly hospitable.

Gamzee moves to captchalogue his clothes and finds that his sylladex is missing, which brings a tight knot of panic to his throat. His clean clothes, his toiletry kit... his strife portfolio... his _paint pots_...

...that last squeeze-bulb horn he'd been holding onto...

But no, it's just stuff, right? Just stuff, and there's every chance that it'll show up again, he can trust in things working out for once, because worrying takes too much energy at the moment, and the universe fucking owes him a few miracles by now.

He lets his bloody, torn clothing fall in in a heap on the floor. The slime in the recuperacoon is once again weak and dilute as he sinks into it, a ghost of the dosage he'd found here earlier. Adrenaline and traces of distilled sopor are souring in his veins, and he aches all over, but especially in his head, and now he's not sure he'll ever be able to get to sleep...

Except he barely has time to be frustrated with his own wakefulness.

Color's important, right? Even if you don't much see that one's better than the other, even if you can't remember the order half the time. Color's part of what makes people who they are, can define connections.

Maybe he just needs to find the right color.

Maybe if he paints it right, it'll set everything right, call Karkat back to him.

Maybe he just needs to find the color Karkat wants.

He can ignore the curious looks from the others, the critical looks from those who know what his paint usually is, because he knows he's hit on the answer, and when it works, Terezi will forgive him the wash of blue-green - minty, she might say - across his white and black...

Gamzee awakes with a gasp, sitting bolt upright and grasping blindly for the opening of the recuperacoon. Still waist deep, his arms and torso dripping slime, he leans out through the circular portal, groping until his fingers catch on a fold of fabric and he picks up his already-ruined shirt. Trembling slightly, he scrubs it hard against his face, and peers in the dim light at the resulting mess, white and gray streaked through with yellow and rust and green.

No teal.

 _No teal._

Of course there's no teal. It was just a dream. He hasn't seen Terezi in nights and nights, when would he even have had the opportunity to hurt her?

Anyway, his waking mind isn't so cracked as to think that painting his face in her color would somehow summon Karkat. It was just a dream. Just the kind of dream that could really make a body miss being ogled by horrorterrors when he sleeps.

Just a dream.

Gamzee lets the sopor- and paint- and blood-stained fabric drop the the floor again and slides back into the recuperacoon, curling up and sinking into the slime to his chin. It takes a while for him to shake himself back to sleep.

He doesn't remember any of his other dreams that day, and suspects that he should be thankful for that.

 

Gamzee reaches that point where he's not really asleep anymore but he's really not sure he wants to admit that wakefulness might be a thing that's happening. Even if he's soaked up about all the sopor this formula of slime is going to offer and now might as well be curled up in the abultion trap for all the slime is going to put his mind at rest, the curative component of the concoction still feels damn good on his bruises and cuts. He sure as fuck does not want to stand up, bear up his own weight and trade supportive sopor slime for cold, thin air, so Gamzee drifts.

At least, until something strikes the outside of the recuperacoon with a _thud_ that sends lances of color-sparked pain through Gamzee's head and paints slow concentric ripples across the surface of the slime. Gamzee drags himself more or less upright, back and neck protesting as he levers himself up to look out through the opening in the side of the cocoon.

The Grand Highblood stands with a massive fist still resting against the side of Gamzee's recuperacoon. As Gamzee blinks blearily up at the adult, something drops to the floor next to the sleeping vessel. Gamzee looks down, sees...

"My sylladex!"

The Grand Highblood grunts assent. "Don't fucking know if anything's missing," he says. "I didn't have the patience to fight your goddamn retarded shuffle modus. Get up, kid, you've slept almost a day and a half." With that, the adult turns and goes, leaving Gamzee to work out how best to acknowledge that the outside world exists.

He needs a shower, badly; the slime he scrapes off is dingy with blood and sweat and greasepaint, and his joints ache despite the hours and hours in the recuperacoon. There was a small ablution chamber off the main block of the suite, he remembers; Gamzee does a cursory run-through of his sylladex and finds that nothing, indeed, seems to be missing, then steps into the previous night's - or rather, the night before the previous night's - pants. The shirt is completely ruined by anyone's standards, cut and torn and stained with greasepaint and four colors of blood. He rather suspects that, if presented with the garment, Kanaya's response would probably be to burn the shirt.

Or possibly chew on it a little.

Anyway, he's not going far; the Grand Highblood barely looks up as Gamzee crosses to the ablution chamber. When Gamzee emerges, freshly washed and dressed and painted, and wincing a little as he runs a towel over his hair and accidentally bumps a bruised horn base, his ancestor still seems supremely disinterested, although he shoves a small, slightly grease-stained cardboard carton across the desk toward Gamzee.

"Come on, then, if you're going to fucking wander off looking for food and almost get your useless self killed, you might as well eat," the adult growls. Gamzee comes over cautiously, finds the box to contain a couple of slices of some sort of dark, roasted meat, along with half of a small loaf of crusty bread and a small container of what appears to be some sort of cooked leafy vegetables. A bottle of water nestles in one corner.

He lifts the dish of greens, looking at it a little skeptically, and the Grand Highblood chuckles. "It's food with actual nutritional content, kid, it won't fucking hurt you," he says, turning his attention back to the printout in his hand. "Don't tell me you've never fucking eaten anything that wasn't practically plastic. Hurry up and eat, we got places to be."

With a silent nod, Gamzee replaces the greens and scoops up the whole carton, carrying it over to the other side of the block and sitting down. The vegetables are a little bitter and the meat is spiced oddly, and he'd rather have something sweeter to drink if given a choice, but Gamzee supposes it's not bad. It probably doesn't hurt that he's ravenous, too.

By the time he finishes, his ancestor has begun to cast impatient glances in his direction. As Gamzee sets the meal carton aside and stands up, the Grand Highblood stands as well, the papers in his hand slipping easily into a captcha card. He begins to move toward the door and, seeing that Gamzee is not following, motions with a curt movement of the head for the young troll to come along. Before stepping outside of the block, the Grand Highblood pauses, turns to Gamzee, looking down at him in a way that makes the younger troll freeze. The adult reaches toward him and Gamzee's eyes widen briefly in fear, but the Grand Highblood simply straightens his descendent's ruff and turns once more to go.

Gamzee follows close on the Grand Highblood's heels, and the subjugglator makes no attempt to go for his habitual hold on Gamzee's horn - for which Gamzee is very grateful, as both of his horns still ache rather intensely.

"We're pretty fucking sure we found the rest of that nest of fucking conspirators," the Grand Highblood says without preamble as they walk. He doesn't turn to look at Gamzee, hardly raises his voice to be heard despite the fact that he's facing away from the younger troll. "Blackice is holding onto a couple of them to grill them and make sure, but I figured it's probably best to have at least a couple executions before the rumors get too out of hand. Besides, once that's done with, the two of us can get our asses off the ship and head back."

Gamzee thinks for a moment, then decides he might as well risk a question. "Sir, how long we been out here? I motherfucking lost track."

"Pretty close to three nights, including travel," the Grand Highblood replies. "I figure you've spent more than two-thirds of that in some variation on the state of being passed the fuck out, though."

"Sorry," Gamzee mutters, cautiously and a little resentfully.

"You should be," the Highblood growls, but doesn't elaborate.

Gamzee just hopes that it doesn't take too long to tie up the lose ends on the Grand Highblood's case - it might still be possible to get back before freeshift tomorrow, before the meetup with the others and the textual contact with those motherfuckers he misses the most.

Good god, does he hope he can still make it to that.

 

They enter into the courtblock by a small door concealed in the shadows below one of the main daises. The block has a lot of concealing shadows; even on a ship as large as the barracks-carriers are, space is at a premium, and the chamber of justice is made to seem bigger than it really is by lighting the important areas in focused beams that glare almost uncomfortably bright to a troll's nocturnal eyes - or perhaps it's mostly just to the particular eyes in Gamzee's battered and sopor-stung head - with the rest of the block plunged in darkness.

"Stay close, kid, and keep your fucking trap shut," the Grand Highblood hisses. Without waiting for an answer, he starts up the stairs to the raised platform, taking the steps two and three at a time. Gamzee nods, more on reflex than anything else, and follows, blinking, into the light that shines on the dais. The Grand Highblood settles into a throne-like chair - or perhaps the "-like chair" part can be left off, and it's just a throne - and gestures impatiently to Gamzee to stand to one side. On the other side, Blackice and Vextruth already stand.

"You took your time," the seadweller murmurs icily.

The Grand Highblood smirks. "What, you fucking drying out?" he replies in a low growl. "I see we went with the minimalist decor in here."

"Vexy's being pissy about culling his subordinate," she says with a very small shrug. "He didn't want his sign on this case."

"Well maybe if said subordinate could tell the fucking difference between _collusion_ and _abduction_ -"

"You've made it abundantly clear that this is your case anyway, your Levity," Vextruth puts in. "We did not have a Capricorn courtblock layout we could implement at such short notice."

"Been meaning to have the thing fucking redesigned for decades anyway, the old one looks stupid," the Grand Highblood mutters dismissively. "You're still arguing the case, of course."

"Of course," Vextruth concedes.

"I ain't got the patience to sweet talk a judicial drone," the Highblood continues, as if the legislacerator hadn't spoken. "I'd much rather watch some other fucker do it."

Then all conversation in the courtblock - the muttered undertones of the three high-ranking highbloods and the indistinct buzz of scores of observers somewhere in the dim on the other side of the block alike - cease, as the accused are ushered in from one side and the tyrant drone from the other.

Gamzee doesn't really follow much of the proceedings; partly, he thinks, because he has no idea what to make of the case Vextruth lays out. For all that much of it must be a blatant fabrication, though - there's of course no mention of the Cult of the Sufferer, and it seems that it takes some rather complicated storytelling to connect the conspiracy without that thread - it seems to be accepted, because after several hours of talking, gesticulating, and occasionally fighting, Vextruth receives an approving rumble from His Honorable Tyranny and moves in to cull.

Gamzee doesn't watch that part. He averts his gaze, instead turning his head slightly to observe his ancestor and the seadweller, although as he hears the bodies fall he kind of thinks that watching the culling might have been preferable to the self-satisfied grin on the Grand Highblood's face, the naked glee on Blackice's. Gamzee forces his attention back to the courtblock floor, where Vextruth is now calmly throwing the corpses to the judicial drone.

It's a relief when the Grand Highblood decides he doesn't want to stick around after the trial and execution, even if Gamzee struggles a little to keep up on the way back. Back in the suite, Gamzee curls up in a chair and opens his sylladex for a while, watching the colors change while the Grand Highblood wanders in and out in what appears to be some sort of irritated fugue. Or maybe that's just his usual attitude. Gamzee's not sure he can say, or that he cares to.

Finally, after several hours of this distraction, as well as another meal that's once again almost savage in it's simplicity, the Grand Highblood throws a glance in Gamzee's direction as he heads for his own respiteblock. "Go to 'coon, kid," he growls. "It's late."

Gamzee returns the look, displaying a little more irritation than he means to. "Ain't motherfucking tired," he replies. "I slept all night, didn't I? And I got a headache."

"So do I," gripes his ancestor. "He's a shade under six and a half feet tall, and he wears a Capricorn sign."

The adult leaves the block without another word. Eventually, Gamzee tires of watching his modus, and, finding boredom looming, decides to take another stab at sleep after all.

It comes more easily than he really expects.

They leave mid-evening, and despite himself, Gamzee finds that he loses track of time in transit. The starscape seems emptier now than it did on the trip over, although it is just as choked with imperial ships. It seems darker. Starker. The distances hurt more. The starsprinter's interior smells of fresh lacquer, but Gamzee doesn't care to try and figure out where the new addition to the blood mosaic is.


	19. I'm Trying To Protect You, Dumbass

As Gamzee disembarks into the shuttleport of the recruitment barracks-carrier, he nearly trips over himself looking around for any indication of the time. Sure enough, a clock is mounted high on one wall.

It's about half an hour into freeshift. An odd sort of panicky hope grips his blood-pusher. The others will just be getting started now; he'll be late, but if he goes now he'll make it. He rocks back and forth slightly on his heels, impatient but not so impatient as to interrupt while the Grand Highblood attends to whatever maintenance orders are necessary on the starsprinter after such a trip. When the limeblooded technician scurries away in obvious relief, Gamzee speaks up. 

"Hey, are we... are we done?" he asks. "Can I go?"

The Grand Highblood looks down at him for a long moment, then shrugs. "I can't think of any reason why the fuck not," he admits. "You can find your way back from here?"

"Yeah, I figure so," Gamzee replies.

His ancestor shrugs. "You better fucking be at Carnival this morning, though," he says warningly.

Gamzee nods. The Grand Highblood turns away, and Gamzee takes that as a dismissal.

He's not happy with the time it takes, because he barely knows the way from the shuttleport to the subjugglator quarters and from the subjugglator quarters to the legislacerator academy, and he kind of thinks that there's probably a more direct rout. But Gamzee has more than had it with wandering off aimlessly for pretty much forever he thinks, so he goes the long way around that he's reasonably sure of.

There's no trouble getting in - wasn't last time, isn't this time. This time, though, there's no sign of Terezi coming to meet him, and Gamzee stands just inside for a long moment, looking around in mild confusion as the legislaceration students give him a carefully wide berth, before reaching out and grabbing a passing green-blood who looks vaguely familiar.

"Hey. Brother. You know where I might start looking for Terezi Pyrope?"

The troll's eyes widen - green, but not nearly as saturated as the last pair of frightened green eyes Gamzee saw, and that thought's almost enough to make him drop this boy's arm and scrub his hand against his pants. He doesn't, though; he tightens his grip a little as if to reassure himself that he's not going to flip out. In practice, it doesn't reassure Gamzee much, and it doesn't reassure his captive at all.

"I... I don't know," the green-blood replies, stammering slightly. His eyes shift away, not looking at Gamzee.

"You sure about that, motherfucker?" Gamzee growls. He'd throw in a little chucklevoodoo, but the other troll seems plenty freaked already and anyway, his horns are still kind of sore. "ARE YOU MOTHERFUCKING SURE ABOUT THAT? Terezi Pyrope. Libra. 'Bout our age, wicked red shades?"

The legislacerator-in-training pulls slightly against Gamzee's grip, but can't extract his arm and gives up quickly. "I think I _might_ have seen her go back to the study booths a while ago."

"Might?"

"Third from the left."

Gamzee releases his grip and turns to go. The green-blood speaks again, and Gamzee pauses to glance back at him. "She had someone with her."

"That's fine," Gamzee replies with a too-wide grin. "That's so motherfucking miracle-fine, you don't even motherfucking know about it."

Sure enough, the third door from the left is closed. Gamzee figures it'll be locked, but he tries the door anyway and finds it, as predicted, firmly fastened. He rattles the knob a little. "Kindly fuck off!" comes Terezi's bright voice from inside. "We're using this one!"

Somewhat less distinctly, Gamzee can make out Equius's growl of, "Language, Pyrope."

Gamzee leans a shoulder against the door. "Come on," he calls through the barrier, "is that any way to be getting your speech on at a motherfucker what just flew halfway across the fleet to get here?"

The door opens so quickly that Gamzee stumbles and falls through it, and finds himself sitting under almost under the table and looking up at a grinning Terezi. "You made it!" she crows, closing the door behind him and then offering him a hand up. "We thought you weren't coming!"

"Would'a been here sooner if I could," Gamzee replies, taking her hand and hauling himself to his feet. He slides onto the padded bench across the table from Equius, who, apart from a small noise of dismay as Gamzee toppled bodily into the tiny room, has barely turned his attention from the husktop in front of him.

He looks up over the top of the screen now, or at least Gamzee assumes he does from the tilt of his head, although his eyes remain as obscured as ever. "I apologize for my inattention," he begins.

Gamzee shrugs. "Ain't even a thing," he replies.

Then he reaches across the table and grabs the husktop out from under the Sagittarius's fingers.

"Wow, Gamzee, rude!" objects Terezi, and Equius is staring wordlessly at him with a kind of mixture of irritation and concern, but Gamzee ignores both of them as he aligns fingers with keyboard and begins to type, not even bothering to change to his own profile.

AC: :33 < anyway its pawfully easy for you to shut yourself off so its really good to hear youre finally making some new furiends!   
CT: GO GET KARKAT   
AC: :33 < equius?   
CT: ha ha, nah, kittysis  
CT: NOW GO MOTHERFUCKING FIND HIM   
AC: >:(( < *ac snarls showing all of her teeth*   
CT: i ain't got time for your play-pretend miracles  
CT: OR PATIENCE  
CT: get me that nubby motherfucker   
AC: :33 < what have you done with my meowrail?   
CT: NOTHING  
CT: what, should i do something with him?   
AC: :33 < oh my clawed gamzee if you so much as lay a whisker on equius   
CT: MOTHERFUCKING WHAT  
CT: what are you even planning to do  
CT: POUNCE ON ME?

As he types, Equius has gotten up and come around the end of the table to look over his shoulder. The tabletop deforms slightly under his hand as he leans over to see the screen. "Highblood, perhaps if I could reassure her...?" he says. Gamzee ignores him.

AC: :33 < *ac raises her hackles and hisses fiercely at the monstfur clown*  
AC: :33 < you put my meowrail back on gamzee  
AC: :33 < you put him back on this instant!   
CT: sure, you can talk to your palebro  
CT: WHEN I'VE MOTHERFUCKING TALKED TO MINE   
AC: :33 < thats not fur and you know it!   
CT: life ain't fair  
CT: LIFE AIN'T MOTHERFUCKING FAIR AND YOU OF ALL MOTHERFUCKING PEOPLE OUGHT TO KNOW THAT BY NOW, SISTER   
AC: :33 < then it shouldnt be fair for you eifur >:((  
AC: :33 < let me stalk to equius!

"Highblood, be reasonable," Equius echos. "Let me handle Nepeta. You're frightening her."

"She had any motherfucking assassination attempts lately?" Gamzee growls.

"What? That's ludicrous, Makara, why would you ask -" There's a sudden note of worry in Equius's voice as Gamzee cuts him off.

"Then fucking shut up, Equibro, I gotta talk to Karkat."

CT: get karkat   
AC: :33 < put equius back on!   
CT: GET KARKAT    
AC: :33 < not until i talk to equius!   
CT: that ain't how this is going to motherfucking work   
AC: :33SLJ:f'dhgjklhj;  
AC: '  
AC: WHAT THE ALL ENCOMPASSING FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?   
CT: I COULD ASK YOU THE SAME THING, MOTHERFUCKER.   
AC: YOU DO NOT INTERRUPT SOMEONE MID-FEELINGS JAM, GAMZEE, THAT IS NOT OK.   
CT: but karkat   
AC: NEPETA IS REALLY FUCKING FREAKED OUT. GIVE THE COMPUTER BACK TO EQUIUS BEFORE SHE BECOMES ANY MORE CONVINCED THAT SOMETHING TERRIBLE HAS HAPPENED TO HIM.   
CT: WHAT?   
AC: FOR GOD'S SAKE, CLOWNBULGE, YOUR QUIRK IS ALTERNATING LINES AND YOU HAVE A FUCKING HISTORY OF KILLING THE GUY.  
AC: WHAT THE HELL IS SHE SUPPOSED TO THINK?   
CT: oh right, didn't motherfuckin think of that   
AC: HOW COULD YOU NOT THINK OF THAT, I MEAN SERIOUSLY  
AC: LOOK, JUST GO, I DON'T KNOW, SIT ON YOUR HANDS OR SOMETHING WHILE THEY FINISH AND WE'LL GET YOU SORTED IN A FEW MINUTES  
AC: DO YOU THINK YOU CAN HANDLE THAT?

Without answering, Gamzee shoves the husktop back into Equius's hands, and drops his head to the tabletop, resting his forehead on his folded arms.

After a moment Terezi comes and sits next to him, sitting with one foot tucked up under her. "At least you're here," she says. "What was the big deal, almost flaking on us like that? The message you sent was kind of vague!"

Gamzee turns his head to look at her, but doesn't sit up. "Gee-Aich decided it was 'take your descendent to work night' or some shit," he replies.

"And?"

"And I don't wanna motherfucking talk about it," he growls. "At least not 'till I jam with Karkat about it a little."

She tilts her head to one side. He can hear her inhaling, deeply through her nose, studying him. "That bad, huh?"

Gamzee nods, lifting his head a little so as not to smear his paint against his arms with the motion.

"Well, Sollux said he had a really good connection tonight, so we should have plenty of time for everyone to talk to everyone," she says after a moment. "Equius and Nepeta have been at it for like half an hour already, anyway, they should be done pretty soon."

"I am aware that others are waiting, Pyrope," Equius says, pausing in his typing. "There is no need to be snide about it."

Terezi laughs. "I wasn't even talking to you!" she objects. 

"All the same." The blue-blood returns his attention to the computer.

A little while later, Gamzee looks up to find the husktop being pushed in his direction, the log-in dialog up in the middle of the screen. Without a word, he grabs at it and pulls it closer, and jabs at the keyboard, entering his handle into the appropriate field.

 **\-----** user **terminallyCapricious** logged onto connection **Bee2Knee2**

CG: OK NOW THAT WE'RE NOT APPROPRIATING OTHER PEOPLE'S HANDLES AND TRAUMATIZING THE FUCK OUT OF OUR FRIENDS  
CG: DO YOU WANT TO TELL ME WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH YOU?   
TC: WHAT KIND OF MOTHERFUCKING OPERATION ARE YOU EVEN RUNNING HERE, BRO?   
CG: I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU COULD POSSIBLY MEAN BY THAT  
CG: WHY DON'T WE DIAL BACK THE ASSUMPTION OF MY OMNISCIENCE BY JUST A LITTLE HERE?   
TC: i just got back from almost getting murdered, karkat   
CG: OH GOD WHAT   
TC: ALMOST GETTING MOTHERFUCKING ASSASSINATED BY A BUNCH OF SUFFERERISTS   
CG: OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK  
CG: GAMZEE, ARE YOU OK?   
TC: no  
TC: DO I SOUND LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER WHO'S OK?  
TC: but i ain't dead or nothing   
CG: OH GOD I SHOULD HAVE FUCKING KNOWN THIS WOULD HAPPEN  
CG: I MEAN  
CG: YOU'VE GOT TO KNOW I DIDN'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THIS  
CG: BUT I SHOULD HAVE REALIZED IT COULD HAPPEN AND FUCKING WARNED YOU OR SOMETHING   
TC: THEY'RE YOUR FOLLOWERS AREN'T THEY  
TC: that didn't stop being a motherfucking thing that was happening, right  
TC: MOTHERFUCKING INFIDELS ALL WORSHIP YOU AND SHIT   
CG: LOOK, GAMZEE  
CG: I HAVE LITERALLY ONLY HAD CONTACT WITH ANYONE OFF-PLANET BESIDES YOU, TEREZI, AND EQUIUS IN THE PAST SEVENTEEN HOURS  
CG: WE'RE STILL JUST BEGINNING TO TRY AND ESTABLISH CONTACT WITH WHATEVER KIND OF ORGANIZATION THERE MIGHT BE AMONG ADULT CULTISTS.  
CG: I'VE FUCKING KNOWN THEY WERE OUT THERE BUT I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT   
TC: wait why seventeen hours?  
TC: WHY THAT CRAZY ASS NUMBER?   
CG: VRISKA DECIDED TO BRING HER CRAZY PIRATE ACT HOME  
CG: OR EXCUSE ME, "MARQUISE MINDFANG," BECAUSE WE'RE STILL TRYING TO EXPLAIN TO HER THAT LIFTING HER ANCESTOR'S NAME WHOLESALE IS PRETTY MUCH THE TACKIEST FUCKING THING SHE COULD DO.  
CG: BUT SHE'S GOT A COUPLE OF SHIPS, EVEN IF THERE'S A GOOD CHANCE THAT THE HELMSWOMAN ON THE ASTROCLIPPER WON'T PULL THROUGH EVEN NOW THAT WE'VE TAKEN HER OUT OF THE HOOKUP, AND A COUPLE OF THE TROLLS SHE RECRUITED OR SHANGHAIED OR WHATEVER HAVE SOME CONTACTS THAT SOUND LIKE THEY'LL BE FUCKING USEFUL  
CG: BUT LIKE I SAID, THAT'S A REALLY REALLY NEW DEVELOPMENT  
CG: I HAVEN'T HAD A FUCKING CHANCE TO IMPRESS ON ANY OF THE OFF-PLANET SUFFERERISTS WHAT TOTAL BULGEWIPES THEY ARE AND A LOT OF THEM PROBABLY DON'T EVEN KNOW I EXIST  
CG: A LOT OF THE TIME IT'S ALL I CAN DO TO KEEP THE ONES HERE FROM TRYING TO LYNCH SOMEONE  
CG: SPEAKING OF WHICH, YOU FUCKING GOT ME RANTING OFF-TOPIC, GAMZEE, WHAT THE FUCK   
TC: honk   
CG: DON'T YOU FUCKING HONK AT ME  
CG: YOU CAN'T JUST DROP SOMETHING LIKE "OH AND SOMEONE TRIED TO KILL ME" ON ME AND LEAVE IT AT THAT.   
TC: SORRY, BEST FRIEND  
TC: but they motherfucking did   
CG: YEAH, I BELIEVE YOU, IDIOT!  
CG: ARE YOU - NO, FUCK, I ALREADY ASKED THAT  
CG: WILL YOU BE OK?   
TC: I DUNNO  
TC: probably  
TC: ONCE THIS MOTHERFUCKING HANGOVER GOES AWAY  
TC: or concussion  
TC: OR WHYEVER THE FUCK MY MOTHERFUCKING THINKPAN'S ALL THROBBING AND CRUMBLY FEELING   
CG: HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY NOT KNOW WHETHER YOU'RE HUNG OVER OR CONCUSSED?   
TC: could be both things actually  
TC: BECAUSE THEY HIT ME AND THEN THEY SOPORED ME  
TC: ain't that just the best joke?  
TC: THEY TRIED TO MOTHERFUCKING CONTROL A ROT-PANNED MOTHERFUCKER BY KNOCKING HIM OUT WITH DISTILLED SOPOR   
CG: I DON'T THINK THAT'S FUNNY AT ALL.   
TC: yeah well  
TC: YOU WOULDN'T   
CG: OK, START FROM THE BEGINNING, WILL YOU? TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED.   
TC: some seadweller got his ass killed by the suffererists first  
TC: GH ALL DECIDED FOR SOME REASON TO TAKE ME ALONG WHEN HE WENT TO INVESTIGATE  
TC: motherfucking shit was fucked up, karkat, they ripped off his sign and carved the irons into him before they killed him   
CG: THEY DID WHAT  
CG: THE NOOKDIGGING MUSCLEBEAST FONDLERS ARE DOING WHAT WITH MY SIGN?  
CG: THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE ON SO MANY FUCKING LEVELS I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE TO START  
CG: I MEAN IT'S NOT A GREAT SIGN AND I HAVEN'T EVEN BEEN WEARING IT HALF THE TIME LATELY BUT STILL  
CG: I'M NOT EVEN GOING TO BOTHER KILLING THEM, I'M JUST GOING TO FIND THEM AND GLARE AT THEM UNTIL THEY SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST UNDER THE SHEER FORCE OF MY RAGE   
TC: KINDA BEAT YOU TO IT, BEST FRIEND  
TC: although it was less glarey and more stabby  
TC: AND POSSIBLY KIND OF RANTY? I WAS KIND OF OUT OF IT.   
CG: GAMZEE WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO  
CG: SHIT, I SHOULD BE SHOOSHPAPPING YOU SO HARD RIGHT NOW, SHOULDN'T I?   
TC: nah bro  
TC: I THINK I'M GOOD FOR NOW  
TC: even if passing the fuck out ain't nearly as nice as shooshpaps  
TC: ANYWAY YOU DON'T FREAK ON ME NEITHER, HEAR?  
TC: motherfuckin breathe, karkat   
CG: RIGHT. RIGHT. I'M OK. LOOK HOW OK I AM.   
TC: :o) HONK   
CG: BUT I AM CONSOLING THE FUCK OUT OF YOU IN PERSON AT THE EARLIEST POSSIBLE OPPORTUNITY, GAMZEE  
CG: OPERATION CLOWN RESCUE HAS OFFICALLY BEEN MOVED TO THE TOP OF MY TO-DO LIST  
CG: WE HAVE SPACEFARING CAPABILITY NOW, I'M COMING TO GET YOU SOONER RATHER THAN LATER.   
TC: shit, motherfucker   
TC: I  
TC: i think i'd like that miracle   
CG: REALLY?  
CG: LAST TIME WE TALKED YOU WERE PRETTY FUCKING STUCK ON THE IDEA OF LANGUISHING OUT THERE FOREVER  
CG: FUCK IT ALL I'M COMING TO GET YOU.   
TC: MOTHERFUCKING GREAT. HOW?   
CG: WHAT?  
CG: I DON'T EVEN KNOW, I JUST AM.   
TC: not like that you ain't   
CG: WHAT'S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN   
TC: LIKE HELL ARE YOU COMING OUT HERE WITHOUT ANY SORT OF MOTHERFUCKING PLAN, BRO  
TC: i wanna come home so bad   
CG: THEN FUCKING LET ME COME GET YOU    
TC: I WANT TO GET A PROPER DAY'S SLEEP AND I MOTHERFUCKING DAMN WELL WANT TO SEE TAV AND YOU   
CG: I AM STILL NOT SEEING ANY KIND OF CONFLICT HERE GAMZEE   
TC: the conflict is that it ain't home if you're not there  
TC: THE MOTHERFUCKING CONFLICT IS THAT IT WON'T BE HOME IF YOU GET YOUR MOTHERFUCKING BLOOD SPLASHED ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE TRYING TO GET ME  
TC: and that's what will happen if you charge in without knowing what you're doing, motherfucker   
CG: FUCK, YOU'RE SERIOUS ABOUT THIS, AREN'T YOU?   
TC: WHY DO YOU ALWAYS ASK THAT?  
TC: why you always got to ask if i'm serious when i try to protect you, bro?   
CG: BECAUSE I'M TRYING TO PROTECT YOU, DUMBASS. IT THROWS ME OFF WHEN YOU START DOING IT, TOO.   
TC: I AIN'T A FUCKING GRUB, KARKAT, I'M YOUR MOTHERFUCKING MOIRAIL  
TC: moirallegic miracles go both ways, ok?  
TC: YOU'RE GONNA CRASH AND MOTHERFUCKING BURN IF YOU DON'T LET THAT BE A THING   
CG: OK, OK, GAMZEE, I UNDERSTAND. IT'S NOT LIKE "DRAMA AND/OR TRAGEDY STEMMING FROM ONE MEMBER OF A PALE PARTNERSHIP OVEREXTENDING THEMSELF AND REFUSING APPROPRIATE AID FROM THEIR MOIRAIL" ISN'T A STANDARD ELEMENT IN LIKE A THOUSAND DIFFERENT MOVIE TITLES.   
TC: honk  
TC: A GUY COULD GET HIS JEALOUSY ON FOR THE MOVIE INDUSTRY, YOU KNOW   
CG: VERY FUNNY  
CG: NOW IT KIND OF SEEMS LIKE IF YOU'RE CALM ENOUGH TO LECTURE ME AND CRACK JOKES YOU'RE CALM ENOUGH TO NOT FUCKING TYPE LIKE YOU'RE ABOUT TO STAB SOMEONE IN THE EYE  
CG: DO YOU THINK YOU COULD CUT IT THE FUCK OUT?   
TC: Oh sHiT SoRrY BeSt fRiEnD  
TC: dIdNt rEaLiZe i wAs StIlL MuRdErQuIrKiNg tHeRe   
CG: YEAH, THAT MIGHT BE A PROBLEM, WE SHOULD WORK ON THAT.   
TC: BuT PrOmIsE Me bRo   
CG: PROMISE YOU WHAT, PAINTBREATH?   
TC: pRoMiSe mE YoU AiNt gOnNa gO OfF AlL HaLf cOcKeD AnD ShIt oN ThE WhOlE ReScUiNg mE ShOw   
CG: GAMZEE, YOU'RE BEING RIDICULOUS   
TC: PROMISE, MOTHERFUCKER  
TC: gh investigates suffererist shit personally, i learned that this week  
TC: YOU WANT HIM ON YOUR ASS?  
TC: is that what you motherfuckin want?   
CG: FINE, I PROMISE   
CG: I WON'T COME OUT THERE UNTIL I HAVE A SOLID PLAN  
CG: BUT YOU'D BETTER BELIEVE THAT THE MOMENT I HAVE A PLAN I'M GOING TO BE ON MY WAY.   
TC: AND YOU WAIT UNTIL YOU'VE DISCUSSED IT WITH OUR END, RIGHT BRO?  
TC: cause you don't got any other way to know if there's something out here you ain't accounting for   
CG: ALRIGHT  
CG: NOW I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO CUT IT OUT WITH THE INSANE QUIRK  
CG: SHOOSH, IDIOT   
TC: MoThErFuCkInG QuIrKsHifT  
TC: i DiDnT MeAn tO   
CG: I KNOW YOU DIDN'T, SHOOSH.  
CG: I'M NOT GOING TO DO ANYTHING STUPID   
TC: YoU BeTtEr NoT    
CG: I'M NOT.  
CG: AND I CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING MUCH STUPIDER THAN NOT WORKING ON GETTING MY SPONGE-ROTTEN MOIRAIL BACK WHERE I CAN KEEP HALF AN EYE ON HIM   
TC: kArKaT ThAt iSnT ReAl rEaSsUrInG   
CG: I'LL BE CAREFUL. SO FUCKING CAREFUL YOU WON'T EVEN BELIEVE IT.   
CG: BUT YOU'VE GOT TO BE CAREFUL, TOO, OK?   
TC: Ok bEsT FrIeNd   
CG: NO GETTING YOURSELF KILLED BEFORE I CAN GET YOU OUT OF THERE, THAT'S AN ORDER.   
TC: hAhA, WaSn'T PlAnNiNg oN DyInG   
CG: THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH. PLAN ON NOT DYING.   
TC: A'iGhT, BrO   
CG: GOOD CLOWN. <>

Gamzee is working on typing an entire row of diamonds when Karkat's next message comes through, and he frowns a little and sends the message of diamonds anyway before responding.

CG: OH HOLY FUMBLING FUCK. GAMZEE, CAN YOU HANDLE YOURSELF NOW IF I GO?   
TC: <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <>  
TC: i fIgUrE MaYbE PrObAbLy? wHy?   
CG: I JUST GOT WORD THAT SOME SPONGELESS WONDER DECIDED IT WAS A GOOD IDEA TO JUMP VRISKA

He pauses for a long moment, typing and erasing several different messages. What kind of reaction is that supposed to evoke from him? What's he even supposed to think? He's not at all sure who, if anyone, he's supposed to be cheering for in this situation - it's not like he really objects to the idea of someone beating on Vriska a little when it comes down to it, but...

Well, maybe it's just a little too close to his own recent experiences.

TC: oh shit bro  
CG: DAMNIT, SHOOSH.  
CG: SHE'S FINE, NO ONE'S HURT TOO BADLY.  
CG: IF THERE'S ONE GOOD THING TO COME OUT OF HER FUCKING FUCKED UP LUSUS SITUATION IT'S THAT VRISKA'S FIRST IMPULSE IS TO DISABLE RATHER THAN CULL  
CG: BUT I WOULDN'T BET ON THE SITUATION STAYING UNDER CONTROL SO IF YOU'RE OK I'D LIKE TO GO YELL AT EVERYONE A LITTLE.  
TC: Go dO YoUr wHoLe lEaDeR GiG KaRkAt  
CG: YOU SURE? IF YOU'RE GOING TO START FLIPPING YOUR SHIT AGAIN I CAN STAY.   
CG: VRISKA CAN TAKE CARE OF HERSELF.  
TC: rEaLlY Go sHoUlDn'T NoOnE ElSe gEt hUrT CaUsE Of mE BeIn sTuPiD AnD ClInGy  
CG: WHAT? DON'T BE STUPID, GAMZEE, YOU'RE NOT BEING STUPID  
TC: HaHa  
CG: OH FUCK YOU, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.  
CG: ANYWAY IF I UNDERSTAND THIS RIGHT YOU'RE CURRENTLY IN A SMALL ENCLOSED SPACE WITH TEREZI AND EQUIUS.  
CG: IF YOU'RE STILL FEELING UNSTABLE I'M A LOT MORE CONCERNED ABOUT THAT THAN I AM ABOUT A GOD TIER BITCH AND THE IDIOT WITH THE RANK BAD SENSE TO ATTACK HER.  
TC: rEaLlY ThOuGh iMmA Be oK  
TC: ChIlL YoUr tItS AnD Go dO WhAtEvEr mIrAcLeS YoU GoTtA Be dOiNg  
CG: OK  
CG: IF YOU'RE SURE  
TC: SuRe aS ShIt  
TC: bEsT FrIeNd  
CG: OK, I'LL PUT TAVROS ON  
CG: I PITY YOU, GAMZEE, DON'T LET THAT SLIP YOUR SORRY EXCUSE FOR A MIND  
TC: CoUrSe nOt pAlEbRo i pItY YoU ToO  
CG: <>  
 **\-----** user **carcinoGeneticist** has logged off


	20. Who Needs a Reputation?

The pause after Karkat logs off seems almost interminably long to Gamzee - what if something's happening back there, he wouldn't even know, with no one connected on their end... but before he can work himself into a real freak out (which he knows he shouldn't, anyway, didn't he just promise Karkat?) text begins to appear again.

**\-----** user **adiosToreador** logged onto connection **Bee2Knee2**  
AT: hEY, gAMZEE, }:)  
TC: TaVbRo :o)  
TC: oH MiRtH TaVrOs i wAnNa kIsS YoUr fAcE   
AT: i MISS YOU, tOO,  
TC: I wAnT To kIsS YoUr fAcE   
AT: hAHA, yOU SAID THAT ALREADY,  
TC: aNd i wAnNa kIsS YoUr nEcK  
TC: AnD YoUr eArs  
TC: aNd yOuR ShOuLdErS  
TC: AnD YoUr cOlLaRbOnEs  
AT: uH, gAMZEE,  
AT: bEFORE YOU GET ANY FURTHER, nOT THAT THAT DOESN'T SOUND REALLY, iNCREDIBLY NICE, aND DEFINITELY AN ACTIVITY THAT i'D ENJOY, i KIND OF THINK i SHOULD POINT OUT THAT sOLLUX AND nEPETA ARE STILL HERE, wITH ME,  
TC: oH  
AT: sO IT'S MAYBE NOT QUITE AS MORTIFYING, aS IT WOULD BE IF YOUR MOIRAIL WAS STILL PRESENT, bUT IT'S STILL KIND OF EMBARASSING,  
TC: ShIt sOrRy mAn  
AT: iT'S OK, i REALLY APPRECIATE THE SENTIMENT, aND SHARE IT, tO A SIGNIFICANT DEGREE,  
TC: <3  
TC: tHeRe i kEpT TrYiNg tO SeNd tHaT At yOu lAsT TiMe wHeN We gOt aLl rUdElY InTeRrUpTeD  
TC: SoRrY It'S So mOtHeRfUcKiN LaTe gEtTiNg tO YoU  
AT: aW, tHANKS,  
AT: <3  
AT: tHAT WAS A DIFFERENT HEART, bY THE WAY, nOT THE SAME ONE YOU JUST SENT ME, bECAUSE i'M KEEPING THE ONE YOU SENT ME, aLL FOR MYSELF, iF THAT'S OK WITH YOU,  
TC: wElL ReAlLy bRo wHy'D YoU ThInK I SeNt iT  
TC: WiSh iT WeRe a mIrAcLe yOu rEaLlY CoUlD HoLd oNtO ThOuGh  
AT: tHIS IS GOOD, tOO, tHOUGH,  
AT: i MEAN, i'D REALLY PREFER TO HAVE YOU BE ABLE TO SEND SOMETHING PHYSICAL, gIVEN THE CHOICE, bECAUSE THAT MIGHT MEAN THAT YOU'D BE ABLE TO COME BACK EASIER,  
TC: :o) ThAt wOuLd bE JuSt aBoUt tHe bEsT fUcKiNg mIrAcLe a mOtHeRfUcKeR CoUlD ImAgInE Up  
AT: yEAH, iT WOULD, wOULDN'T IT?  
AT: bUT IT'S NICE, jUST TO KNOW THAT YOU'RE THINKING ABOUT ME,  
TC: bAbE I'm aLwAyS DoInG ThAt  
AT: aLWAYS?  
TC: AlWaYs  
TC: fOlKs tHiNk i'M SpAcInG OuT BuT NoPe jUsT ThInKiNg bOuT My mIrAcLe mAtEsPrIt  
AT: tHAT'S REALLY SWEET, eVEN IF i THINK, tHAT THAT PROBABLY STILL COUNTS AS SPACING OUT, aND THAT YOU SHOULD PROBABLY PAY ATTENTION, tO WHAT'S GOING ON AROUND YOU,  
AT: sO YOU HAVE MY PERMISSION, tO NOT THINK ABOUT ME CONSTANTLY,  
TC: HaHa oK TaVbRo yOu mAdE YoUr mOtHeRfUcKiNg pOiNt  
TC: bUt rEaLlY ThOuGh i mIsS YoU LiKe fUcK  
AT: i KNOW, i MISS YOU TOO,  
AT: i THINK WE'RE BACK ON THE PROBLEM, oF NOT HAVING A PROPER EMOTICON, tO REPRESENT OUR FEELINGS, lIKE WE TALKED ABOUT LAST TIME,  
TC: <:oC  
AT: wHY IS IT WEARING, a HAT?  
TC: SuPpOsEd tO Be tHe mOtHeRfUcKiNg EyEbRoWs bUt i gUeSs iT DiDn'T WoRk tOo wElL ThOuGh  
AT: oH, nO, i CAN SEE THAT, nOW THAT YOU SAY IT, aND i AGREE, eYEBROWS ARE VERY IMPORTANT,  
TC: i mIsS YoUr eYeBrOwS  
TC: YoU HaVe gOoD EyEbRoWs  
AT: yOU'RE SILLY,  
TC: tHaT's wHaT YoU LiKe aBoUt mE ThOuGh  
AT: i LIKE LOTS OF THINGS, aBOUT YOU,  
TC: GoOd  
TC: bEcAuSe tHeRe'S AlL KiNdS Of mIrAcLeS I LiKe aBoUt yOu  
AT: sO, hOW HAVE THINGS BEEN, oTHER THAN THE LAST FEW DAYS, wHICH kARKAT SAID YOU MIGHT NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT, aND KIND OF SEEMED UPSET ABOUT, hIMSELF, sO YOU DON'T HAVE TO IF YOU DON'T WANT TO,  
TC: YeAh i'D ReAlLy rAtHeR NoT GeT AlL DiScUsSiNg tHaT AcTuAlLy  
TC: yOu cAn aSk kArKaT BoUt iT If yOu wAnT I GuEsS  
TC: SoRrY BrO  
AT: iT'S OK, i MEAN, i DON'T REALLY UNDERSTAND, bUT i'M NOT MAD OR ANYTHING, i'M JUST WORRIED FOR YOU, bUT IF YOU DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT, i CAN DEFINITELY ASK kARKAT, lATER, sO YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME ANYTHING YOU DON'T WANT TO,

Gamzee pauses for a moment, closing his eyes and massaging them with his fingers, before answering.

TC: BaBe i pItY YoU BuT CaN YoU PlEaSe fUcKiNg sLoW DoWn a mOmEnT  
TC: i gOt a hEaDaChE An iT AiN't hElPiNg tRyInG To pIcK ApArT ThOsE MiRaClEs yOu cAlLs sEnTaNcEs  
AT: oH, sORRY,  
AT: i'LL TRY, nOT TO RAMBLE SO MUCH, iF IT'S BOTHERING YOU,  
TC: It'S AlL GoOd tAvBrO  
TC: wOuLdN't sAy nOtHiNg cEpT It fEeLs LiKe sOmEoNe wEnT AnD StAgEd a sIdEsHoW In mY ThInKpAn aN FoRgOt tO GiVe mE A TiCkEt tO SeE ThE ShOw  
AT: hEH,  
AT: i'M SORRY, tHAT YOUR HEAD HURTS,  
TC: AiN't yOuR FaUlT  
AT: sO HAS ANYTHING BEEN GOING ON, tHAT YOU DO WANT TO TALK ABOUT?  
TC: i dUnNo sTuFf i gUeSs  
TC: I MeAn i bEeN PrEtTy bUsY WiTh sChOoLfEeDiNg aN AlL  
TC: wHaT Do yOu mOtHeRfUcKeRs eVeN Do wItH YoUrSeLvEs aLl nIgHt wHeN YoU DoN't gOt tO StUdY Or nOtHiNg  
AT: hEH WELL, yOU'D BE SURPRISED HOW MUCH TIME AND EFFORT IT TAKES, kEEPING FIFTY-SOME DESERTERS OF VARYING CASTES AND CULTS, oRGANIZED,  
AT: i THINK THE USUAL METAPHOR WOULD BE, iT'S LIKE HERDING MEOWBEASTS,  
AT: aLTHOUGH AT LEAST IN MY CASE, i'D BE ABLE TO COMMUNE WITH THE MEOWBEASTS,  
TC: WhY WoUlD YoU WaNt tO HeRd a mOtHerFuCkInG BuNcH Of cAtS AnYwAy?  
TC: aIn'T YoU AlLeRgIc tHaT DiDn'T StOp bEiNg a tHiNg dId iT?  
AT: iT'S A METAPHOR, gAMZEE,  
TC: YeAh i gEt iT  
AT: wELL ACTUALLY i THINK IT'S A SIMILE,  
TC: wHo eVeN kNoWs  
TC: LaNgUaGe iS CrAzY ShIt  
TC: hArDlY MoThErFuCkInG BoThEr wItH It mYsElF  
AT: yEAH, i'VE NOTICED, };)  
AT: yOU'RE JUST MAD DISREGARDING PROPER VOCABULARY AND SYNTAX, aLL OVER THE PLACE, aND CARING VERY LITTLE, iF AT ALL,  
AT: iT'S KIND OF IMPRESSIVE, rEALLY,  
TC: YoU ReAlLy tHiNk tHaT NoIsE  
AT: wELL, yEAH, i LIKE THE WAY YOU TALK,  
AT: eVEN IF IT DOES MAKE ME SOUND EVEN MORE AWKWARD, iN COMPARISON,  
TC: oH BrO DoN't yOu mOtHeRfUcKiNg sTaRt tHeRe yOu tAlK AlL SoRtS Of mIrAcLeS  
AT: }:)  
TC: <3  
AT: <3 tO YOU, tOO,  
AT: oH, uH, kARKAT'S BACK,  
TC: AlReAdY?  
AT: yEAH, i GUESS HE JUST DECIDED TO DRAG vRISKA AWAY WITH HIM OR SOMETHING,  
AT: dO YOU WANT TO TALK TO HIM SOME MORE?  
TC: i DoN't nEvEr wAnT To sToP TaLkInG To eItHeR Of yOu mOtHeRfUcKeRs  
TC: TeLl aT VrIsKa iF ShE HuRtS YoU AgAiN ImMa tAkE HeR ArM BaCk oFf  
AT: gAMZEE, i'M NOT SIX ANYMORE, i CAN HANDLE MYSELF AROUND vRISKA,  
TC: jUsT SaYiN  
AT: aNYWAY, yOU DIDN'T ANSWER THE QUESTION, wHICH WAS, dO YOU WANT TO TALK TO kARKAT SOME MORE,  
AT: bECAUSE AS MUCH AS i LIKE TALKING TO YOU, i THINK WE SHOULD PROBABLY LET SOMEONE ELSE HAVE A TURN EVENTUALLY,  
AT: tHERE SEEM TO BE A LOT OF PEOPLE, tHIS WEEK,  
TC: HaHa yEaH AnD I DoN't eVeN ThInK We fOuNd eVeRyOnE WhAt gOt cOnScRiPTeD YeT  
TC: i MeAn iN MoThErFuCkInG ThEoRy eRiBrO AnD OuR GlOwY SiStEr sHoUlD Be sOmEwHeRe oUt hErE RiGhT  
AT: i SUPPOSE SO, aND IT IS A LITTLE, wORRYING, tHAT kANAYA AT LEAST HASN'T GOTTEN IN TOUCH, i'D EXPECT HER TO,  
TC: I ThInK ShE's PrObAbLy jUsT BuSy tHoUgH  
TC: mOtHeRfUCk tHoUgH I gUeSs wE MiGhT As wElL GiVe sOmEoNe eLsE A TuRn aT ThAt  
AT: pROBABLY, }:/  
TC: FlUsHeD FoR YoU MoThErFuCkEr <3  
AT: aND ME, fOR YOU, aS WELL, <3  
AT: i'LL TALK TO YOU AGAIN, lATER, aLTHOUGH HOPEFULLY NOT TOO MUCH LATER,  
TC: aIgHt bRO  
 **\-----** user **adiosToreador** has logged off

**\-----** user **carcinoGeneticist** logged onto connection **Bee2Knee2**  
TC: WeLcOmE BaCk <>  
CG: YOU'RE STILL HERE?  
TC: sHoUlD I Be sOmE OtHeR PlAcE?  
CG: WHAT? NO, I MEAN  
CG: FUCK, I'M NOT SURE WHAT I MEAN.  
CG: HOW ARE YOU FEELING?  
TC: Ok i gUeSs  
TC: yOu kNoW CoNsIdErInG AlL WhAt'S BeEn gOiNg oN   
CG: UGH FUCK THE UNIVERSE, I AM SHITTY ENOUGH AT THIS WITHOUT HAVING TO DO IT OVER A CHAT CLIENT  
TC: BrO No wE BeEn oVeR ThIs  
TC: yOu'Re a gReAt mOiRaIl aNd yOu dOn'T GeT To sAy yOu aIn'T  
CG: OK YES WE'RE NOT ALL MESSILY DEAD SO I MUST BE DOING SOMETHING RIGHT  
CG: GOD, HOW DO YOU MANAGE TO BE SO FUCKING PATHETIC?  
CG: IF YOU SAY MIRACLES I'M GOING TO STRANGLE YOU THROUGH THIS INTERNET CONNECTION, JUST SO YOU KNOW.  
CG: YOU STILL THERE, ASSCLOWN?  
CG: ALTERNIA TO GAMZEE  
CG: GAMZEE, I AM STARTING TO BECOME FUCKING CONCERNED  
CG: IF YOU ARE CAPABLE OF STRINGING TOGETHER A FEW SEMI-COHERENT WORDS AND SENDING THEM PLEASE DO SO  
TC: WhOa sOrRy pAlEbRo  
TC: zOnEd wAy oUt fOr a mOmEnT   
CG: A MOMENT? THAT WAS LIKE FIVE MINUTES, GAMZEE.  
TC: Ok a lOt oF MoMeNtS  
CG: YOU'RE A MESS, GO GET SOME REST  
TC: i dOn'T WaNt tO Go aNyWhErE WhIlE YoU MoThErFuCkErS ArE StIlL On tHe lInE ThOuGh  
TC: It'S NiCe eVeN WhEn i aIn'T ThE OnE TaLkInG To yOu  
CG: DON'T THINK FOR A FUCKING SECOND THAT YOU'RE GOING TO WIN ME OVER BY BEING ALL MUSHY. I AM WILLING TO WADE THROUGH A PUTRID FLOOD OF MUSH UP TO MY ASS IF THAT'S WHAT IT TAKES TO GET YOU TO FUCKING TAKE CARE OF YOUR MISERABLE SELF.   
TC: aNyHoW I StIlL GoT CaRnIvAl tOdAy aN Gh wAs pReTtY ClEaR He'S AlL AnTiCiPaTiNg mE BeInG ThErE AnD ShIt  
TC: So i cAn'T Go cOlLaPsE JuSt yEt aNyWaY  
CG: GO CURL UP IN THE CORNER OR SOMETHING THEN  
CG: I'LL TELL TEREZI TO WAKE YOU UP WHEN IT'S TIME TO GO, IF YOU FALL ASLEEP.  
TC: nOt sUrE I ReAlLy bEtTeR Be sLeEpInG DrY RiGhT NoW  
CG: PROBABLY NOT  
TC: BuT I'lL Go kIcK BaCk fOr a sPaCe aNyHoW  
TC: yOu wAnT I ShOuLd gIvE ThE CoMpUtEr tO TeReZi?  
CG: YEAH, IF YOU WOULD  
CG: WAIT NO  
CG: PUT EQUIUS ON FIRST, I WANT TO ASK HIM SOMETHING.  
CG: AND YOU SHOULD APOLOGIZE TO HIM FOR EARLIER IF YOU HAVEN'T ALREADY.  
TC: Do i gOtTa?  
CG: YES, YOU GOTTA. FUCK ONLY KNOWS WHY EITHER OF YOU WOULD WANT TO BE FRIENDS WITH THE OTHER, BUT IF YOU'RE GOING TO PULL SHITTY STUNTS LIKE THAT WITH FRIENDS, THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS APOLOGIZE.  
TC: iF YoU SaY ThAt mOtHeRfUcKiNg sHiT I GuEsS MaYbE I ShOuLd bE LiStEnInG  
TC: I'lL Go dO ThAt tHeN  
TC: <>  
CG: OK, I'LL TALK TO YOU LATER,  
CG: NO, MAKE THAT I'LL SEE YOU LATER.  
TC: wHeN YoU GoT A FuCkInG MiRaClE PlAN ThOuGh  
CG: YES, GAMZEE, WHEN I HAVE A PLAN  
CG: BE CAREFUL OUT THERE  
TC: <>  
CG: <>  
 **\-----** user **terminallyCapricious** has logged off

Gamzee holds out the husktop to Equius, who doesn't seem to notice at first, too busy staring at the closed door as if he might scare off potential interruptions through the solid surface. The clown gives the machine a little shake to catch Equius's eye, and clears his throat.

"Equius? Karkat says he wants to talk at you a bit."

Equius nods, taking the computer. With a sigh, Gamzee props his elbows on the table top, resting his forehead in his hands with his thumbs rubbing small circles at his aching temples. He kind of hopes that none of tonight's circus acts are anything too _loud_. Maybe he can just find his ancestor and check in and then head back to his quarters, because a large block full of people in a good mood does not sound particularly appealing to him right now.

A couple of minutes later, Equius hands off the computer to Terezi, who practically pounces on it. The blueblood stands and comes over to Gamzee's side of the table, seeming a little ill at ease in the small space.

"Highblood?"

Gamzee looks up slowly, as if taking his time will mean that Equius is not standing over him when he finally completes the action. This is not, it turns out, the case. Gamzee quirks an eyebrow upward in acknowledgment and inquiry.

"Vantas asked me to ascertain whether you were seriously injured in your ordeal," Equius says by way of explanation. "He was extremely concerned by your claims of possible concussion."

"Oh." Gamzee sighs, and scoots over a little on the bench. "Motherfucking should have known better than to complain, I didn't mean to get him worrying over me."

The blueblood smiles crookedly, taking a seat straddling the bench. "He's likely to continue worrying unless you consent to my examination," he points out. "If I may...?"

"Yeah, I guess, if Karkat wants you to," Gamzee replies. That brings to mind the other thing Karkat had wanted, and Gamzee glances away as he adds, "Sorry about that shit earlier, interrupting you getting your pale on and all."

Equius seems a little taken aback. "I would have done exactly the same, had one of my inferiors stood between Nepeta and myself in a crisis," he says dryly.

"Man, your color don't even enter into it," Gamzee groans.

"You are entitled to that delusion, I suppose."

Gamzee growls in frustration. "Just get on with whatever miracles you need to convince my palemate I ain't about to keel over."

Equius nods, and, business-like, checks to see that Gamzee's eyes are focusing correctly. "Is there anything else?" he asks, and Gamzee shrugs.

"Not really."

" _Highblood,_ I am not certain what you mean by that," Equius says.

Reluctantly, Gamzee shrugs again. "My horns got whacked a bit, they're still kind of sore, but really, it's ok."

Equius's expression darkens, and he turns his head slightly, looking away, angling his own broken horn away from Gamzee in a way the indigo thinks is probably more reflexive than anything. "Horn injuries can be very serious," he says. "May I take a look?"

Gamzee hesitates a long moment, and Equius grits his teeth. "I think I speak for Pyrope as well when I say I don't wish to be the one to inform Vantas that you have been culled in a delirium because a cracked horn became infected and the fever spread to your cerebral sponge," he snaps. "I can at least tell you if you need to seek more competent medical attention."

Finally, Gamzee shrugs again. He's ill at ease with the idea of Equius's hands anywhere near his already hurting horns, but the other troll has a point, and if he wants to bring Karkat up to speed he figures it's pretty much a choice between Equius's fingers and Terezi's tongue. So he turns and bends his head as Equius rises up on one knee to get a better look. "Got hit across the back of the bases," he mutters.

There's a long moment as Equius carefully parts the hair around Gamzee's horns, brushing aside curls without actually touching horns or scalp, and it makes the skin crawl at the nape of Gamzee's neck. He's almost made up his mind to shove the other troll away when Equius draws back.

"I don't see any evidence of fracture," he says, carefully moving back away from Gamzee, who breathes a little easier with the space between them. "If they're bruised badly enough that they're hurting you, I'd recommend avoiding unnecessary psychic activity for a few nights, and that you make certain you're getting adequate sleep."

Gamzee nods, feeling like a chastised wiggler, or maybe _wondering_ if this is what it feels like to be a chastised wiggler because it's not as if the old goat was ever really one for scolding. "I know Tav sometimes puts coldpacks on his horns if he up and bangs them on shit..." he begins.

Equius snorts. "I suppose you could try that, if you wanted hypothermia in addition to everything else," he replies. "Nitram has a much higher base temperature than you do. Your blood is already exquisitely cool; it would not be wise to chill it further."

Really, Gamzee would prefer his medical advice _without_ the obsession over his caste, but he doesn't have the energy to argue with Equius right now, so he just nods. "That all?"

"I don't know, is it?" Equius returns the question.

Gamzee shrugs, and again buries his head in his hands. "Fucking sopor hangover, an' a few cuts and bruises," he mutters. "Nothing serious."

"You're certain?" There's almost a note of concern in Equius's voice.  
"It's _nothing serious,_ " Gamzee repeats, throwing a little spark of fear-force behind the words, which sends a pulse of pain through his horns but is worth it for the way the blueblood nods and gets up, moving back to the other side of the table.

"Very well," he says. "And I believe I already advised you to avoid straining your horns like that."

Gamzee chooses to ignore him in favor of zoning the fuck out.

 

A little while later, he's vaguely aware of a shift in Terezi's manner as she types, and not too incredibly long after that, Gamzee is startled out of his reverie by the blind girl cursing at the computer. He jumps, already half-out of his seat before he comes fully aware of what's going on, at which point he sinks back onto the bench sheepishly. Equius throws him a glance that might be just a little amused.

"You can't hide behind a shoddy connection, blueberry bitch," Terezi is still snarling at the computer, and Equius sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I very much doubt that Serket sabotaged the link in order to antagonize you," the blueblood says. "Please tell me that you at least discussed with Vantas when the next opportunity to connect will be."

"Of course!" Terezi pouts. She pauses, tapping at her bottom lip, making a great show of being deep in thought. "Three weeks from yesterday is the next good chance, he said. Same time as usual should work, if everyone can make it."

"I don't see why I would not be able to," Equius says.

Gamzee shrugs helplessly, wanting to be able to commit but uncomfortable doing so after this week's events. "I'll do my motherfucking level best to be here," he says.

Terezi nods sharply, decisively, as she captchalogues the husktop. "It's a plan, then."

"I think perhaps it would be best if we did not all leave at once, tonight," Equius comments. "We are conspicuous enough as it is. There is no reason to draw further attention to ourselves."

Gamzee chuckles, thinking of the reactions he received on his first visit, and tonight, of the greenblooded boy's trepidation in telling him that Terezi was not alone. "If nothing else," he says, "we ain't much good for your reputation, sis."

"Reputation," Terezi scoffs. "Who needs a reputation? Not giving a fuck is a fuck of a lot more fun."

"That attitude is wholly -" Equius begins stiffly, and is cut off by both of the others at the same time.

"Oh, who asked you," Terezi says, as Gamzee groans, "Don't motherfucking _start_ , brother."

The set of Equius's shoulders is defensive, but he lets the matter drop. He stands, nods vaguely at them. "In any case, I'll be off. You both know how to contact me if you wish to."

With that, he slips out of the small block.

Gamzee sighs - relief or just tiredness, he's not really sure. Terezi sniffs slightly, an olfactory glance in his direction, and gives him a smile that's maybe just a little less razor-lined than her usual. "Karkat told me a little of what you said happened."

"Yeah?" Gamzee doesn't particularly want to elaborate on whatever information she has.

"Suffererists, huh?" she prompts, and he sighs.

"Yeah, Suffererists. Don't really want to talk about it."

She studies him for a long moment on a deep inhale that leaves Gamzee a little light-headed in sympathy, and he adds, "You still got that pendant that Aradisister tracked down for you? The one that belonged to Redglare? Might be a good idea you could prove you got some connection if cultists decide to give you trouble..."

Terezi shakes her head. "It seemed safest to leave it behind, " she admits. "You know, on account of how if anyone who knows what it is and _isn't_ a cultist found it, I'd be just asking to be culled? Nepeta's holding onto it for me."

He nods. "Makes some motherfucking sense, I guess," he replies. "I was just thinking..."

"I also think I'm probably less of a target than you are?" she adds. "For the Suffererists, I mean! Since I'm just another teal and all."

Gamzee scowls, but can't refute her logic.

Carnival that evening is about as loud and chaotic as ever, and after a few minutes he climbs to the top row of the seating that rings one end of the chapel and sits, watching everything through half-lidded eyes. It strikes him as a shame that he's never had the chance to attend Carnival while high, but he banishes that thought as quickly as it comes, knowing it's not precisely the lack of the drug that's ruining his mood now.

Well, it's the lack of sopor, but only in the context of the sudden, brief reintroduction... he pushes that line of thought away, more firmly this time.

After a little while, Lydain climbs up to join him, trailed by an older clown who Gamzee doesn't recognize, a tealblood with knobby horns and short, curly hair. 

"You've been gone," Lydain says without preamble, sitting down with careful space left between the two of them.

"You noticed," he replies, not looking at her.

"And you look like you've been dragged backward through a thruster engine," she adds, her voice level and matter-of-fact.

"What, all motherfucking exploded and splattered all over the place?" he returns with a lopsided smile that's nearly a snarl.

"Yeah, pretty close."

"Motherfucking miracle I'm walking around, then."

There's a long moment, in which the teal fidgets and Lydain watches Gamzee, and he does his best not to acknowledge either of them.

Finally, abruptly, he breaks the silence. "Either introduce me to your friend or fuck off," he growls. "I ain't in the mood to watch her fret herself all to pieces."

Lydain gives a little start, and a slightly guilty look at her companion, who shrugs. "This is Pe- this is _Engineer Scarejoy_ ," Lydain says, quickly correcting herself, to the apparent amusement of the teal. "Scarejoy, this is Gamzee Makara, Novitiate Capricorn."

"Nice to motherfucking meet you, I guess," Gamzee says half-heartedly, nodding to the older troll.

"Pleasure's all mine, little brother," she replies.

The silence begins to get awkward again, and Scarejoy adds to Lydain, "Did you want to watch the knife-throwing? I heard he's poisoning the blades tonight, he'll be starting in a few minutes. We should head over there if we want a good view."

Lydain perks up a little. "Oh, yeah! You want to come, Gamzee?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "I figure I'll keep my ass up here and veg," he replies. "Stick where the Gee-Aich can spot me easily. He kinda indicated he was going to be looking for me this morning or some motherfucking thing."

"Ok," she says, sounding like she's not really sure how to respond.

"You motherfuckers have fun," he adds.

"Thanks," Scarejoy says. "Come on, little sister, I think we should leave him be."

Gamzee watches them go, wondering if he oughtn't have gone with them after all.


	21. You Said You Had It Under Control

Gamzee's not so much half-asleep as just not really caring what state of wakefulness he's in at the moment as he washes his face that morning, carefully wiping away the paint in preparation for sleep. 

It's a little strange how distant the whole affair of the past few days seems, standing in the familiar hygieneblock at one of the familiar basins, as Lydain comes in and claims another of the sinks, busying herself removing her own paint for the day. Gamzee leans in toward the mirror, eyes tracking over the angles of his own face; a bruise that had blackened along one cheekbone the day before is already starting to fade. Before long, he thinks, there'll be no physical sign of what happened to him on the other ship.

He's not sure whether to think that a positive or a negative.

As Gamzee is finishing, Staiko comes in, apparently heading for the showers, and Lydain looks up. "Oh, the Gee-Aich is back," she says. "I talked to him like you asked."

Gamzee watches in the mirror, not feeling the need to turn around when the reflection's just as good, as the curly-horned boy pauses and looks over. "Yeah?" Staiko prompts.

Lydain shrugs, half-turning and leaning against the edge of the sink. "He said not if you can't ask him yourself."

"Shit," Staiko mutters, deflating.

"I'm pretty sure that means there's a chance he'll say yes if you _do_ ask in person?" Lydain points out.

"Yeah, but when am I going to get a chance to do that?" Staiko returns. "It's not worth my skin if I interrupt him at a bad time. Not for a little wriggling day party."

Again, Lydain shrugs. "You _could_ come to Carnival with us tomorrow," she suggests. "I mean, it's not like we ritually sacrifice visitors or anything."

"Usually," Gamzee adds, grinning into the mirror.

Lydain flicks paint-murky water at him. "You're not helping," she says, "and that's kind of rich, coming from a guy who came to Carnival tonight just to sit around looking _bored_."

"Ouch, chica," Gamzee growls.

Lydain ignores him, turning back to Staiko. "But really, you should come."

"I wouldn't have to, you know," Staiko says doubtfully, waving one hand vaguely over his own face, "would I?"

"What, wear paint?" Lydain giggles. "Not unless you want to. Come on, it'll be _fun_."

Staiko shrugs and heads into a shower stall. If the conversation is continued, Gamzee misses it when he goes back to his own block and studiously ignores the way Sephar studiously ignores him as he climbs into his recuperacoon.

Lydain must have been in a persuasive mood, though, because the next morning when the little group leaves for Carnival, Staiko tags along somewhat sheepishly.

They pause as a group just inside the chapel doors - well, at least, Lydain stops and Staiko with her, and Arsast pauses as well, casting a calculating look at the two of them, and Gamzee hesitates, too, because most of the group has stopped and it seems a little awkward to just keep going. Rossan apparently has no such concerns, as he begins to saunter off into the crowd.

"Hey, Rossan!" Lydain calls after him.

He doesn't stop, but does slow and turn, walking backwards now. "What?"

"Keep an eye out for the Highblood, ok? Staiko wants to talk to him."

Rossan rolls his eyes. "When'd you startgivingorders to me?" he whines. "It's Carnival, Lydain."

"I am _asking_ for your _cooperation_ ," Lydain retorts, "although maybe I made a mistake when I assumed that you were capable of enjoying yourself and carrying out a relatively simple task at the same time?"

"Yeahyeah, fine," Rossan gripes. Still walking slowly backward, he runs into another troll, quickly turns his attention to babbling a mixture of apology and flirtation, and is quickly lost from view in the crowd.

"You realize he's probably already forgotten," Arsast comments dryly.

"Probably," Lydain agrees.

"So what do you want us to do if we _do_ manage to locate the Gee-Aich?" asks Arsast.

"I dunno, let him know we're looking for him? Come find us and point us in the right direction?" Lydain shrugs. "I don't really think we're going to have that much trouble finding him ourselves, I mean Capricorns kind of stick out. No offense, Gamzee."

"It's the motherfucking truth," Gamzee replies with a little shrug of his own. "Ain't gonna take no offense from that, sister."

"I think I'm going to go see if I can catch up with some of the other acrobatic types," Arsast says. "You guys enjoy yourselves."

"You too," Lydain returns the blessing.

With a little wave, Gamzee goes off on his own as well.

When the novitiates meet up again after Carnival, Staiko looks equal parts relieved and mildly annoyed. Arsast quirks an eyebrow. "Well?" he asks, as they walk.

"Party's a go for the eleventh, but we can't invite anyone lower than cerulean," Staiko replies. "He said it _would_ have been teal if I'd asked him myself in the first place."

"And?" Arsast prompts.

"And teal's the highest of anyone I know on _this_ ship," Staiko groans. "All my other friends managed to get themselves transferred off somewhere that wasn't so noncombatant-oriented."

"Shit, bro," Gamzee says sympathetically. 

"Yeah," Staiko says, sighing and looking up at the ceiling as he walks. "I guess if you guys have anyone you want to ask, you can invite them?"

"Really?" Arsast glances sharply at Staiko who, still studying the ceiling tiles, doesn't seem to notice the look.

"Well, it's hardly much of a party if it's just the same seven of us that are always hanging around," he replies. "No point spending my ninth wriggling day sitting around moping because none of my friends could make it. It's cool. I'm used to hanging around other people's friends, I guess."

Rossan snickers a little at that, and is ignored by everyone else present.

"Well, I'm sure between the lot of us we can think of a _few_ people," Arsast says. "I'll pass the message on to Seph and Lazapi?"

"Yeah, good," Staiko replies with a sigh.

 

Gamzee is a little disappointed that, between his blockmate-cum-co-auspictee monopolizing the computer and the fact that he has no idea what Equius's schedule is like aside from the fact that he apparently has the same freeshift and meal times as Gamzee does, he doesn't manage to talk to Equius until nearly dinner the next night. 

Finally, though, the royal-blue username pops up while Gamzee is online, and he clicks to open a chat window.

___ **terminallyCapricious** has contacted **centaursTesticle** ___  
TC: hEy bRo, bEeN TrYiNg tO GeT A HoLd oF YoU AlL NiGhT :o)  
CT: D--> Highb100d, hello  
CT: D--> I apologize for my e100siveness  
TC: NaW, AiN't nO MoThErFuCkInG ThInG  
CT: D--> You do understand that there is a function of the chat client that w00ld allow you to leave a message to be delivered when I ne%t became available?  
TC: rEaLlY?  
CT: D--> Honestly am I to believe that you are completely computer illiterate  
TC: JuSt mOsTlY  
CT: D--> You cannot be serious  
TC: wElL YeAh i'M NoT AlLwAyS AlL GrEaT At sErIoUs bRo, bUt i rEaLlY DiDn'T KnOw  
CT: D--> Perhaps I missed some crucial evidence of sponge damage  
CT: D--> Speaking of which, how are you feeling?  
TC: BeTtEr, tHaNkS :o)  
TC: aNyHoW OnE A ThE GuYs uP In hErE Be hAvInG A BiT Of a gEt tOgEtHeR FoR HiS WrIgGlInG DaY On tHe eLeVeNtH AnD AlL, AnD I WaS WoNdErInG If yOu mIgHt wAnNa cOmE HaNg?  
CT: D--> I  
CT: D--> That is  
CT: D--> It was already my intention to attend?  
CT: D--> Miss Ultmar invited me earlier tonight  
TC: SwEeT  
CT: D--> I hope this will not cause any complica%ons  
TC: wHaT ArE YoU TaLkInG, MoThErFuCkEr?  
CT: D--> That I have a%epted an invitation from her when you wished to invite me  
TC: WhOa aRe yOu rEaLlY SaYInG  
TC: oH MoThEr fUck  
TC: EqUiBrO, YoU ArE AlLoWeD To hAvE OtHeR MoThErFuCkInG FrIeNdS, YoU KnOw  
CT: D--> Thank you, Highb100d, I understand  
TC: bRo tHaT Be a mOtHeRfUcKiNg tHiNg tHaT Be tRuE ReGaRdLeSs  
TC: DoN't mEaN It'S PeRmIsSiOn tHaT's aLl uP AnD HaPpEnInG HeRe oR NoThInG  
TC: sHoUlDn'T GoT To bE  
CT: D--> Yes ok  
TC: So i'Ll bE CaTcHiNg yOu aT StAiKo'S ShInDiG ThEn?  
CT: D--> I was under the impression that it was to be more of a gathering  
TC: wHaT's tHe dIfFeReNcE?  
TC: No wAiT  
TC: i dOn'T ThInK ThAt'S A MiRaClE I ReAlLy WaNt eXpLaInEd  
CT: D--> Very well  
CT: D--> And yes, you will see me there  
CT: D--> As I stated, I was already intending to be present for this occasion  
TC: BiTcH TiTs  
CT: D--> Although I c00ld hope that you would have a little more care of your language, Highb100d  
CT: D--> I am not 100% certain I know what that is even supposed to mean, although I a%ept that it is probably positive  
TC: fUcKiNg rIgHt iT Is  
CT: D--> You are incorrigible   
CT: D--> Now if you will e%cuse me I am afraid I have some other concerns I must attend to, e%pecially if I plan to be ind001ging in a social occasion of an aftermidnight for the second time in a week  
TC: YeAh oF CoUrSe i'Ll sEe yOu tHeN  
TC: bYe  
___ **terminallyCapricious** has cut contact with **centaursTesticle** ___

Gamzee closes the chat window; short of his getting the blue-blood well and truly pissed off there's no real guarantee that Equius would be able to work up the nerve to be the one to close the line of communication, and Gamzee is in no hurry to deal with that right now.

There'll probably be plenty of shit to deal with the evening of the party, but he figures he'll deal with that when it comes.

 

Gamzee's not sure who provided the hand-made banner of taped-together printer paper that's currently hanging a little sadly across one wall of the common block, but he's pretty sure it wasn't Lazapi, because she's standing under it, looking up with a quizzical, critical look on her face. When she sees Gamzee has entered the block, she waves him over and he approaches, a little cautiously.

"What's wrong with this picture, Gamzee, can you see it?" she asks. 

He looks up at the banner, tilting his head a little to one side as he examines it. "The words are kinda all scrunched to one end, I guess."

She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and glances over her shoulder at Rossan, who watches them, practically draped over the back of one of the couches. He rolls his eyes.

"See, it's obviously screwed up, even Gamzee can see it," Lazapi begins.

Gamzee crosses his arms over his chest. "Hey, now," he objects.

She ignores him. "It's so far off center it's not even funny."

Rossan rolls his eyes. "I didn'tseeyou volunteering, littlemissartist."

"I asked if you wanted me to help! Twice!" she retorts. "When you asked if I knew where you could get big paper, and when you tried to borrow my good markers! You said you had it under control."

"Yeah, well..." Rossan shrugs, and turns away to sit with his feet propped against the coffee table, sliding headphones out of a sylladex card and onto his head.

Lazapi heaves a theatrical sigh, and turns back to glare at the offending decoration as if the sheer force of her gaze could make the text properly space itself out.

"So, uh, when are we expecting shit to start happening?" Gamzee asks after a moment.

She looks a little confused for a moment, then shrugs. "Pretty soon - Staiko and Lydain went to pick some stuff up, I think, they'll be back in a bit," she says. "I was actually just about to go meet Equius? I told him I'd walk him over, since he hasn't been in here before..."

There's a moment of silence that edges on awkward, before she adds, "Actually, I think I'll get going, then."

Gamzee hesitates a moment as she goes, and then hurries after her, catching her in the corridor outside. "Wait, Laz, can I talk at you a moment?"

She pauses, and now it's her turn to cross her arms defensively. "What do you want, what is it?"

"I just..." Gamzee hesitates, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. "It's about Equibro. You got your understanding on that the guy's pretty much motherfucking functionally incapable of sayin' 'no' to you, right?"

Lazapi stares at him, open-mouthed, for a moment. "Are you trying to warn me off of him or something?"

"What? No," Gamzee says quickly, "I just... He's weird in the head, chica, he's got the hemospectrum so tightly wrapped round his thinkpan he don't function so well sometimes around trolls our hue. And you ain't always the best at thinking shit through and Equius is my friend. I'm not chill on watching the motherfucker get himself taken advantage of."

"Oh, is that all? Thank you so much for your input, now fuck off," she sneers, turning to go.

"Lazapi-"

"I'll try and get him here without accidentally ordering him to go jump in an airlock on the way over," she calls over her shoulder. 

Gamzee watches her go, hesitating for a long moment after she rounds a corner and disappears from sight.

 

Finally, he sighs and turns to go back into the common block. Rossan looks up as he enters, a speculative look starting to cross his face, and Gamzee glowers. "Whatever you're all about to suggest is the case, I'm pretty motherfucking sure the answer is no," he informs the other clown.

Rossan smirks, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back into the couch, watching Gamzee out of the corner of his eye. "What, am I gettingpredictable or something?"

Gamzee snorts. "You're always predictable, I've just usually got all the sense I need not to up and point it out."

The other clown pouts. "Ouch," he laughs. "Ok, someoneclimbedoutta the wrong 'coonport this evening."

Gamzee is saved from having to reply by the entrance of Lydain and Staiko, who promptly begin unpacking an almost startling variety of snack food and beverages from their sylladices. Rossan laughs a little disbelievingly. "Wow, Lydain, you certainlyknowhow to findshit," he comments. "Whose nook didyouhave to suck togetthis?"

She rolls her eyes, kicking his feet off the table to make room. "Don't even start, Rossan, I think I may have to cull someone to pay this off," she says, a kind of good-natured peevishness in her voice. "Totally worth it, though, I didn't think they even made some of these flavors anymore."

Staiko meanwhile has turned an appraising eye on the sole concession to decoration. "Wow," he says after a moment. "That is a _shitty_ banner."

Rossan cackles. "Aw, comeon, I pouredmyfuckingsoul into that thing!"

"Just what we needed, confirmation you don't have a soul," Staiko replies. "You should have let Lazapi do it."

"You know, that's what Lazsister said, too?" Gamzee informs him. He reaches for a bottle of grape Faygo and hesitates just a little, glancing at Lydain. "Mind if I...?"

"No, Gamzee, you have to wait for the opening ceremonies of the party, during which we ritually sacrifice Rossan," she replies with a smile, and flaps a hand at him. "Of course you can, go ahead."

"Bitchtits," Gamzee chuckles, opening the bottle to the sound of Rossan's complaints of, "Aww, why do I always havetobe the ritualsacrifice?"

Over the next half-hour or so the room begins to fill up; Arsast wanders in, and has hardly had time to flop down on the couch and snag a bottle of something Gamzee thinks he recognizes as mildly alcoholic, before there's a knock on the outer door. This is quickly followed by a slant-horned cerulean girl sticking her head into the room a little cautiously, talking even before she can possibly have had time to see anything. "Hello, excuse me, is this the right - Sassy!"

Arsast sets down his bottle so quickly that it wobbles alarmingly and all but vaults over the arm of the couch, hurrying to greet the new arrival and pull her down to his level for an enthusiastic, very red kiss.

" _Sassy_?" Rossan laughs incredulously, and without breaking the kiss, Arsast lets go of the girl with one hand to make a very rude gesture in Rossan's direction.

Gamzee almost jumps out of his skin as Sephar - who he hadn't even seen or heard come in - reaches past him to snag the abandoned, opened-but-almost-untouched bottle. She takes a careful mouthful, swallows, and peers intently at the label for a moment, and then goes looks for a moment at the flushed couple with vague good humor before speaking. "Hey, Vollue."

The newcomer disentangles herself to look up. "Hey, Sephar," she replies with a smile.

Lydain clears her throat. "Really touching reunion, maybe the rest of us could get some introductions?"

Arsast smirks. "Everyone, this is Vollue Shento. Voll, everyone, and if you don't have everyone's names already I'm going to have to ask who you are and what you've done with my matesprit."

"Oh, hush, for the last time I do not have some sort of psychic name-sense," she laughs, but her eyes are flicking over the group in a way that gives Gamzee the distinct impression that she's matching faces and symbols with a mental database of some sort.

Lazapi and Equius arrive a little while later, and exchange greetings with Gamzee which are brief and, on Lazapi's part at least, a little frosty, before she all but drags the blueblood off to talk to someone else. Equius follows, with an apologetic look at Gamzee as he goes. Gamzee sighs, looking for a moment at the almost-empty soda bottle in his hand and watching the way the purple liquid clings to the plastic as he turns it, before downing the last mouthful and reaching for another bottle. Orange, this time, he decides.

"Wow, you just completely didn't even consider anything harder than sugar-water there, did you?" Vollue asks, sitting down next to him.

Gamzee jumps a little, glad that he hasn't yet opened the bottle because he would have probably sloshed said sugar-water all over himself. He laughs. "What, you girls got some sorta 'you gotta be _this_ sneaky to get your association on Arsast' rule?" he asks, gesturing slightly below shoulder-height. 

She grins. "I like how you're measuring stealth in height. You'd be Gamzee, right?"

"Last I checked," he replies.

"Seems like a good bet, then." Vollue leans forward to take a bottle of something quite a bit more intoxicating than the Faygo in Gamzee's hand, and proceeds to gesture with the still-sealed bottle as she talks. "Really, though, just soda? You'll have to excuse me, pretty much what I know about you comes via the filter of Sephar, and I'm sure you don't need me explaining why I'd be cautious of _that_!"

Gamzee chuckles darkly. "I am all sorts of just chill with slamming the wicked elixir, chica," he replies. "Ain't ever cared much one way or the other 'bout booze, personally."

Well, he hasn't.

Not alcohol.

She nods, smiling slightly and watching him. "That's right, you carnies are weirdly fond of the stuff, aren't you? I should have known Sassy'd take up with someone else circus _sooner_ or later."

"You got some sort of problem with the Circus?"

Vollue laughs, drumming her fingers against the lid of the bottle in her hands. "I'd hardly be with him if I was."

After a moment's consideration, Gamzee nods slowly. "Fair enough, sister." He pauses, watching her out of the corner of his eye, and adds, "I tell you, though, I can't help getting my motherfucking notice that you ain't touched your drink, either."

She looks at him for a long moment, a slow smile working it's way onto her face. "More observant than I would have thought, too," she says. 

Gamzee shrugs, and that's when Lydain pops up from the card table in the corner and waves insistantly at them. "Either of you up for some Corefruit Comparisons?"

"Oh, yeah, " Rossan grumbles, "asktheguy whose thinkpan makes nogoddamnsense."

Smiling, Gamzee pushes himself to his feet and wandering over to join the crowd clustered around the card table. "Figure I probably am," he says. "How do you play?"

It turns out that he's pretty good at it, especially with half the participants seeming to favor funny or ironic answers over appropriate ones. He wins a number of cards, Rossan gets kicked several times for suggesting someone else cheated, Lydain and Staiko half-heartedly argue over whether anyone can really be expected to know the references on some of the cards. Equius declines to play, and Lazapi is almost disqualified from the game because she won't stop letting him look at her cards and help her choose.

Gamzee hardly notices the difference when someone passes him a glass bottle, just a little the wrong size to be faygo. He twists the top off and takes a long pull, and pauses at the sharp edge of alcohol in the taste, and at...

He takes a more careful sip, holding it in his mouth for a moment and tasting that soft tartness, hidden away behind sugar and alcohol, and he swallows it and lifts the bottle to look at the label.

"What's this shit got in it, anyway?" he asks, a nervousness in his voice that seems to cut through the room.


	22. Action or Reaction

There's a lull in the conversation which can't be more than a few seconds but seems impossibly long to Gamzee. He's looking at the bottle, but somehow he can't bring himself to really see it, to read the label, to discover that yes, he's as fucked as he thinks he is. 

Finally - or soon? Oh fuck oh fuck what has he done to himself, but no, he's just in shock, right, two mouthfuls of the strongest pie wouldn't fuck with his sense of time this much this quickly - it's Equius who reaches over and carefully takes hold of the neck of the bottle. "That would be Trance, highblood," he says carefully, starting to draw it out of Gamzee's grasp. "It's laced with a mild dose of domestic-grade sopor."

It suddenly seems as if his body has remembered how to move and is making up for lost time; he lets go of the bottle abruptly and Equius, startled by the sudden weight of the unsupported bottle, grabs at it and succeeds only in shattering the glass vessel, liberally splattering both himself and Lazapi. Gamzee's only distantly aware of this, though, only vaguely aware of the blue-blood's babbled apologies, which maybe isn't so surprising considering that he's also only got the vaguest idea of how he went from sitting at the card table to standing, with the collapsible chair collapsed behind him.

"Hey, Gamz, you ok?" comes a voice from somewhere on the other side of the block, and Gamzee looks over to see see Arsast half-way to his feet from where he'd been lying supine with his head in Vollue's lap.

Gamzee nods slowly, and he's not sure how or why he manages to say "Yeah, I just really kinda need to not be here now," when his thinkpan is filled with a litany of _no no no no fuck no no fuck no fuck fuck no no no_.

He doesn't wait for the others to respond, doesn't wait to see what _he_ might say next. He makes his way to the hygieneblock at very nearly a run, ducking into the first stall and not caring that the door behind him swings closed rather loudly and doesn't latch. He falls to his knees at the load gaper, desperately jabbing a finger, two fingers, into the back of his throat. Is it supposed to be this hard to make oneself vomit?

How long does it take for significant amounts - detectable amounts - _any_ amount - of sopor to make it into a troll's bloodstream? Gamzee refuses to believe that he's hit the point of no return already; he's certainly not high now, not with this hot panic singing in his thinkpan, and that thought's enough to encourage him. He tries again, this time hooks fingertips over something behind the base of his tongue and his throat finally clenches in that way that means he's going to be sick.

He's sick. He's thoroughly sick. His eyes burn and his throat burns, and he clings to the edge of the load gaper for a long moment when he's done, the foul acidic taste of second-hand Faygo heavy on his tongue.

Eventually he drags himself to his feet and goes out to one of the sinks, and lifts a leaky handful of cold water to his lips to rinse his mouth, smearing his paint in the process and not even caring. The panic begins to fade, although his breath still comes fast and unsettled, and he's thinking that he may just have managed to dodge a bullet.

And then, behind him, one of the load gapers flushes, and his mind races as he tries to think of who had not been in the other block just now, and he bites back a groan as he comes up with only one possible answer, an answer very quickly confirmed.

"Whoa, heaving already?" Sephar asks, coming up behind him with a laugh and a slight slur in her voice. "I wouldn't have figured you to be such a lightweight. You know, _considering_."

Gamzee looks up slowly, meeting the eyes of Sephar's reflection in the mirror. "Get your sorry carcass out of my air," he growls. "I just so completely can't deal with you right now."

"Awww, come on," she wheedles, stepping forward until she's right next to him, and laying her head against his upper arm. 

"You're drunk," he snaps in reply, shoving her off.

She beams at him, regaining her balance with hardly any stumbling, which disappoints Gamzee a little. As she steps toward him again, he kind of has to wonder if she's intoxicated enough to have lost her wits or only her inhibitions, and it seems a little unfair considering that he's doing the best he can to avoid intoxication at all and he's still not sure he's ever got his wits about him.

"It's called socially acceptable recreation, _everyone's_ doing it," she says, and laughs like it's the best joke she's heard all sweep. She steps forward again and he turns to face her, bracing the heels of his hands against the basin behind him. "For a rot-pan, you are so. Fucking. Repressed."

Gamzee is tense, shaking slightly, and he's not even sure whether it's lingering nerves from his close call with the sopor or a reaction to Sephar or what. His hands tighten slightly on the edge of the basin, nails skittering over the smooth surface.

"You done losing your bilesack now?" she asks gently, standing far too close to him now, reaching up to lay a hand on his shoulder, and the sudden semblance of concern is so strange, so out of place, that Gamzee just kind of nods.

The hand on his shoulder tightens, her nails digging into the skin, and Sephar hisses, "Good," and yanks him down and presses her mouth to his, delicate shark-like teeth grazing his lips.

His eyes widen.

It has been _so motherfucking long_ since he's been kissed.

And of course the moment the thought arises he pushes it away because he's not _supposed_ to be kissing Sephar. He manages to dislodge her from his face long enough to try to yell for Arsast, but he's not at all sure whether he manages to get it out because a wave of breathlessness overtakes him and then Sephar is kissing him again, sharper than before.

He's not _supposed_ to be kissing Sephar.

He's not _supposed_ to let people give him sopor.

He's not _supposed_ to embarrass himself and disgrace his bloodline and freak out his friends.

Fuck, for that matter, there's a pretty good case to be made that he's not _supposed_ to be in thrall to the empire that wants to cull the people he pities, and that he's not _supposed_ to be seriously doubting, despite Tavros's hope and Karkat's determination, that he'll ever see either of them again -

And he can taste blood, as Sephar bites down on his lower lip a little, frustrated by his lack of action or reaction -

(and he is sober and upset and nobody understands and he will kiss whatever he _damn well wants to kiss_ )

\- and he lets himself lean into it, letting his lips part and then biting down when her tongue darts forward, holding her prisoner like that as he fumbles at the clasp at the back of her neck-ruff. The collar falls to the floor and lays there discarded, and he takes her by the shoulders, turning them around to shove her into the wall between two of the sinks, hard enough that it makes the whole row of mirrors rattle in their frames.

He tastes her blood and his, and around the edges a hint of whatever it was she'd been drinking, and he still kind of tastes bile a little but if it bothers Sephar it's her own fucking fault for starting shit when she did. Her fingers draw indigo welts across his shoulders and he still can't breathe properly but that's fine, the light-headedness will do in a pinch if he can't have sopor to distract him. He shifts, pulling back from the kiss just a little to rake his upper teeth lightly down across her jaw and along her neck, and she tilts her head a little, a faint purr reverberating under his mouth.

The purr is abruptly subsumed by a scream as he finds the little flaps of skin at the base of her neck and bites down into her cervical gills, and cool blood flows freely into his mouth from the feathery tissue under the skin. She's struggling against him now, opening proper scratches across his arms and shoulders, and he feels the heavy hand of suffocation settling properly on his chest. He reciprocates, his horns ringing as he floods her thinkpan with the certainty that he is going to hurt her and hurt her and keep hurting her until she no longer hurts.

He's not even sure it counts as planting an irrational fear at this point.

Gamzee's world contracts to the blood in his mouth and the girl pinned to the wall -

And then his awareness is abruptly widened again, as someone grabs his wrist from behind, yanking him away at an angle that his arm is not meant to move, and he feels something grinding in his wrist and a flare of pain in his shoulder. He stumbles backward, bits of gill and and a flap of gill-cover still in his teeth, and trips over himself and falls.

He starts to rise, and and thinks better of it when Arsast looks up from where he kneels over a collapsed, sobbing Sephar, electric fire in his eyes. "Don't you dare _move_ , Gamz," he snarls, pressing a hand over the bleeding mess on the side of Sephar's neck, and Gamzee doesn't, save for a very slight nod.

Arsast turns his attention back to Sephar, soothing and berating her in the same breath. Gamzee turns his head a little to spit out a mouthful of blood - redder, richer in color than his own. When he tries to support himself on his elbows, his right shoulder twinges in protest, and he uses his uninjured arm to push himself into a proper seated position, cradling his hurt arm in his lap.

"I _said_ , don't move," Arsast snaps, not looking over at Gamzee.

"Just sitting up, bro," Gamzee replies, and then, hesitantly, adds, "is she ok?"

Now Arsast does look up again, leveling a disbelieving look on Gamzee. "Oh, _yeah_ , just peachy. Sephar always goes around with _bite marks_ in her _neck_."

"I - we - she _started_ it," Gamzee objects petulantly.

Arsast sighs. "Just... shut up, Gamz, I'll get to you in a moment." His eyes leave Gamzee's, flicking to the door behind him, and he groans. "Oh my god, you guys, could you be more of creepy voyeurs? Go _away_."

Gamzee looks over his shoulder just in time to see several of the others beating a hasty retreat.

Still kneeling with one arm around Sephar's shoulders and the other hand pressed to the wound on her neck, Arsast studies Gamzee sharply for a moment. "If I ask you to do something for me, are you going to flip out on us again?" he asks.

Slowly, Gamzee shakes his head.

"Ok, good, grab me a towel," Arsast instructs. Gamzee nods, scrambles to his feet and grabs a couple of towels from the cart next to the door, then goes to hand them to Arsast; the smaller troll snatches them out of his hand and shoos him away.

"I told her to go away and she wouldn't," Gamzee protests again, as Arsast presses a towel to Sephar's gills, and with a little encouragement gets her to hold it there herself. "I told her I couldn't all motherfucking deal with her and she -"

"Shut up, Gamzee," Arsast snaps, a little flare of psychic intimidation behind the words. "You think I don't know that you're pretty much the most reactive troll ever hatched? That doesn't make _this_ reaction acceptable!"

Grumbling, he ushers Sephar to her feet. "Come on, Seph, we'll get you patched up proper."

Sephar freezes. "No, no, I'm ok," she says, a thick clumsiness to her voice that confuses Gamzee until he remembers biting her tongue until it bled. "Really, 'm fine, Arsast."

"You are not, you hysterical bitch, you are bleeding out the neck," Arsast growls, looping an arm around her waist and steering her toward the door. "I'll go with you, ok? I'll stand for you. They're not going to cull you over this, I'll make sure of it."

She leans into him and lets him lead her through to the common block, Gamzee trailing after them and trying to figure out how to hold his arm so that his shoulder doesn't make him regret having an arm in the first place. 

In the common block, the festive atmosphere has pretty much dissipated, and the others look up almost as one as they enter, with varying degrees of wariness and curiosity that make Gamzee want to hide behind Arsast and Sephar, as ridiculous as the idea of him trying to hide his lanky frame behind his much shorter ashmates is. 

It's Rossan who breaks the silence, as if he's personally offended by the fact that no one's saying anything. "Ok, seriously, _I_ could seethatwas a lousy time totryanything. What gives, Sephar?"

Sephar glares, clutching the bloody towel to her neck, but it's Arsast who replies. "Lay off, Ross, she didn't see his mad panicked dash. This is just _regular_ levels of Sephar-stupidity."

"Wait, wha'?" Sephar demands. "What happened?"

Arsast sighs. "Someone gave him a Trance," he says.

"What?" Sephar, at least, sounds appropriately shocked by this. "Who glubbing thought _that_ was-"

"Better I don't got any knowledge on that," Gamzee interrupts quickly. "I didn't see, I ain't got any intention at being able to rat anyone out."

Staiko chuckles nervously. "It's just Trance, the stuff's like a percent and a half sopor. I'm pretty sure you'd get a stronger high sleeping with your mouth open."

Arsast turns to glare at him, whipping his head around so quickly that it sends choppy lengths of hair flapping. "He used to eat baked, you ass," he snaps. "Gee-Aich cut him off. We'd rather not see him get cut off _literally_."

A subdued "Oh," is Staiko's only response. Arsast glares around the room as if challenging the others to comment, and no one rises to the bait.

After a moment, Arsast sighs. "Come on, Seph, let's get you to a medic..." he begins, then, glancing at Gamzee, seems to notice for the first time the way that Gamzee is awkwardly holding his right arm. "Oh, mirth, are you hurt, too?"

Gamzee shrugs, moving his left shoulder a lot more than his right. "Just my shoulder's kinda sore where you pulled at me?" he says. "And my wrist, actually, that hurts too."

For the first time this night, Arsast actually starts to look alarmed. "Raise your hand."

"What?" Gamzee asks, confused.

"Your hand. Arm. Lift it over your head."

Feeling a little silly, Gamzee tries, and gives up, wincing, before his arm is even level with his shoulder.

Arsast narrows his eyes. "And wiggle your fingers? Move your hand around?"

Gamzee finds he can't get nearly the usual range of motion there, either.

"Oh, fuck," Arsast groans. "Oh fucking mirth. I can't stand for both of you."

Gamzee gulps. Even for minor injuries, he knows, it's safest to have someone healthy come along to stand as medical advocate in case the medics start suggesting culling - and Arsast's right, he can't serve that role for both of them at the same time.

Sephar grabs at Arsast with the hand that's not holding the towel in place. "You said you'd stay with me," she hisses. "He's not even bleeding."

"Seph, _calm the hell down_ ," Arsast chides.

"You're thinking about it, though, aren't you?" she demands, her voice starting to go shrill with distress. "You're thinking about leaving me to -"

" _No_ , Seph," Arsast growls. "I'm trying to think how to take care of _both_ of you. Because you're _both_ my responsibility, remember?"

The argument is abruptly cut off by a slightly hesitant voice from the corner. "I'll do it," Lazapi says, and then a little more confidently, "I'll stand for Gamzee."

Gamzee does little more than blink in surprise as Arsast rounds on Lazapi, sidestepping the end of the coffee table. "Why?" he snaps, approaching her. 

She takes half a step backward; beside her, Equius looks almost as if he's about to take a step _forward_ but doesn't, after a glare and a flash of chucklevoodoos from Arsast.

"What?" Lazapi asks, a little nervously.

"Why would you volunteer?" Arsast demands. "We all know you're not fond of him - and fuck, no one blames you for that, but why would you offer to help him?"

Lazapi bristles. "Just because I'm pissed at him doesn't mean I get to decide he should be _dead,_ " she snaps.

Arsast studies her for a long moment. "He comes back in one piece or I carve myself a new balancing prop out of your femurs."

With a faint growl, Gamzee lays his uninjured hand on Arsast's shoulder. "That ain't necessary, bro."

The smaller troll shrugs him off. "Oh, I'm sorry, Gamz, were you saying something?" he snarls. "I couldn't hear you over the fact that you're trying to be the voice of reason _literally minutes_ after taking a chunk out of someone's neck."

"Speaking of which..." Sephar whines.

Arsast huffs an exasperated sigh. "Yes, ok, we should go," he agrees. He looks apologetically at Vollue. "I'm really sorry about this, Voll -"

She shakes her head, and looks like she might be trying not to grin. "It's ok," she says. "You're cute when you get all protective. Go take care of them."

"I'll make it up to you," he promises. He glances around the room. "You should probably go - you too, Zahhak. Best you guys not be hanging around if someone official shows up and wants to know why there's blood all over the bathroom."

"Especially given that everyone who knows us is leaving," Vollue agrees. "Don't worry, I'll see myself out."

With that, Arsast steers Sephar toward the door, an arm around her waist until she irritably shrugs him off. Following, Gamzee can't help but feel that _he_ wouldn't mind a physical show of moral support right now, but he's hardly going to ask for it from anyone in the little group that heads out into the corridors.

If only Karkat was here.

To Gamzee's surprise, Equius trails along with them. He throws a quizzical look at the blueblood, and Equius looks sheepish. "Do you mind if I walk with you?" he asks, and adds by way of explanation, "My dormitory is very near the medical complex. It seems nonsensical to go the long way around if I'm not required to."

"Of course you can," Lazapi replies quickly.

Ahead of them, Arsast glances over his shoulder with an appraising look, although Gamzee's not sure exactly who he's appraising. "You're a medical type yourself, aren't you?" he finally says.

"A physindustrialist trainee, yes," Equius replies, business-like.

"Any advice?" Arsast asks.

"Pardon?"

Arsast sighs, coming to a stop in the middle of the corridor. "Well, _I've_ never had to go for treatment like this before. Any pitfalls you might know about, we'd appreciate you pointing them out ahead of time."

"Oh." Equius thinks for a moment, and answers as they start walking again. "Be honest about the extent of the injuries - downplaying them could make the meditech suspicious, and they can't treat you for things you don't tell them about."

He pauses, then adds, "And don't ask the meditech's name if they don't volunteer that information."

"Why not?" Lazapi asks, sounding a little troubled by this instruction.

"It's considered a show of mistrust," Equius explains. "Knowing their name makes it easier to find them later, and if all goes well there's no reason to want to find them."

"So don't lie about how hurt they are, and don't insult the meditech," Arsast summarizes. "I think we can handle that."

Most of the rest of the walk passes in tense silence, punctuated by the occasional pained noise from Sephar - Gamzee rather suspects that she's playing it up, and resolutely grits his teeth against the twinges from his shoulder and wrist.

Eventually, they come to an intersection, and Equius hesitates. "This is where I leave you," he says. "The medical crisis station isn't far from here. I don't believe you'll have trouble finding it."

Arsast merely nods and keeps walking, all but towing Sephar with him. Lazapi pauses, and Gamzee hesitates, waiting for her.

"Thanks, Equius," Lazapi says.

Equius shrugs. "I've done nothing that particularly merits-"

"No," she interrupts, placing an ink-spattered hand on his arm. " _Thanks_."

The big troll goes faintly blue. "It was my pleasure, milady," he replies.

"Well, that's a little better, it's an improvement," Lazapi says with a crooked smile. "I'll see you later. Come on, Gamzee, let's go."


	23. Didn't Have to Up and Do That

The crisis station is mostly empty this time of night, and they hardly pause in the waiting room, a stark room with metallic panelling and poorly-scrubbed-away blood-stains dotting the floor. The four novitiates are split up in to the two pairs of patient and advocate, and ushered into separate examination rooms by a bored-looking teal-blood of about their own age. 

It seems, though, that even if there isn't any wait to get it, that doesn't mean that they'll be seen to promptly; the teal brusquely produces a syringe and takes a blood sample, which Gamzee nervously submits to, and then leaves them alone in the small exam room to wait. After a moment of awkwardly standing around, Gamzee boosts himself up to sit on the narrow exam table, and Lazapi sighs, crosses her arms, leans against one wall.

"So," Gamzee says, breaking the silence, "does this mean we're chill, chica?"

She looks up with a vaguely pained look. "Not really."

"Oh."

Lazapi holds up a hand, as if trying to forestall any further input from him. "Don't start apologizing again, ok? I know you're sorry. And I _want_ to forgive you. Which might mean I'm not _too_ far off from being able to, maybe."

She falls silent, and after a moment, Gamzee prompts, "But?"

Lazapi swallows. "But if I offer forgiveness before I'm ready to give it, it's just going to hurt both of us?" she says. "Forgiveness... it's like offense all turned around, right, if that makes sense? And we already screwed up with that part, with me getting hurt when you didn't want me to, I don't know if that makes any sense, but..." Her voice trails off, and she shrugs, wrapping her arms around herself. "So don't push me, ok?"

Gamzee's not entirely sure he follows, but he nods anyway.

They fall into not quite companionable silence for a while longer, Gamzee sitting with his injured arm cradled in his lap, Lazapi fidgeting a little and glancing at the door from time to time. Finally the door opens, making Lazapi jump a little. A woman in a mediliquidator's coat enters, an angular sign that Gamzee can't identify picked out in cerulean on her sleeve. 

"Ok, which of you managed to get yourself damaged?" she asks sharply, not unkind, but not precisely kind either. 

Gamzee hesitantly raises his uninjured hand. "Got my arm all fucked up."

The mediliquidator nods, turning toward him; her horns are gently curved and swept forward, and she looks as if her nose has been broken recently; the bridge is just a little crooked and swollen, and fading bruises stain her cheeks. Gamzee realizes he's staring when she meets his eyes and gives him a sardonic look.

"Yeah, I know, I'm not exactly pretty at the moment, novitiate," she drawls. "It's not my ability to get whacked around that we're here about, right?"

Gamzee nods. "What happened?" he asks.

"I'm _pretty sure_ that's what you're supposed to be telling _me_ right now," the medic snorts.

"His shoulder's hurt," Lazapi supplies. "He can't move it right."

"Yes, thanks," replies the older woman. "How'd it get that way?"

Gamzee shrugs his good shoulder. "Got pulled off of someone all stupid."

"You got pulled off stupidly, or the troll you were attacking was stupid?" the medic asks, a note of irritation in her voice.

"Both?"

Lazapi sighs. "It was his co-auspicticee," she says. "Their auspistice is with her. I said I'd come with Gamzee because Arsast was freaking out about not being able to stay with both of them."

She pauses, then adds, "He was _really_ concerned that Gamzee would be ok."

The elder troll actually cracks a smile at that. "Been a while since _my_ auspistice has been that attentive," she says, a note of good humor sneaking into her voice. "Let's take a look at that arm."

She feels carefully along the top and back of Gamzee's shoulder with her fingertips, apparently ignoring his winces and grunts of pain, then, with no more than a "This is going to hurt, try not to flail too hard," she grasps his upper arm in one hand, braces the other hand against his torso, and abruptly wrests the joint back into place. Gamzee gives an incoherent shout in pain, and gasps as the shock subsides and he realizes that his shoulder feels a lot better.

"That do it?" the medic asks, and he nods, gingerly rolling his shoulder. She adds, "Anything else?"

"M'wrist?" Gamzee says, holding it out. "It hurts when I try and move my motherfucking hand all normal."

She takes his hand and carefully feels at his wrist, although after a short moment she pauses to glare at Lazapi, who is now standing very close over them. "I'm not about to cull a pre-adult over a sprained wrist," she snaps. "Back off, girl."

Lazapi backs off, a little, and circles around to stand at Gamzee's side instead.

After another long, tense pause, the medic pulls a long strip of bandage from her sylladex and starts wrapping Gamzee's wrist. "And it _is_ just sprained; it'll heal quickly. You'll want to take the bandage off in the morning - direct exposure to the restoratives in the slime will help."

As she pins the wrap in place, Gamzee nods. "Thanks, sis," he says, a little uncertainly.

"It's my job," is the response. She pauses for a moment, pulling a thin sheaf of papers out of her sylladex. "There is one other thing, though."

"Yeah?" Gamzee asks nervously, suspecting he knows what she's concerned by and desperately hoping he's wrong. 

It's not a hope that plays out well, as she continues, "Your blood-sopor levels-"

Gamzee stops breathing for a moment. Oh fuck. Oh god. Oh fucking mirth. He'd thought he'd gotten it in time, thought he'd fixed it; he was _trying_ to be good and it's not his fault he's playing fool to the universe lately and Lazapi is elbowing him gently in the ribs as he works himself up into a proper panic, and oh wait the medic is still talking. He should probably be listening.

"-can't really afford to be skipping sleep while you're still in training."

"What?" Gamzee asks, confused. "I didn't all catch that."

"Your blood-sopor levels," she repeats, slowly, as if talking to a freshly pupated wriggler. "They're very low. Either you've been sleeping dry a significant part of the time, or you haven't been sleeping enough. Neither is a good habit to be getting into at this point, unless you _want_ to be working yourself into a state where you start making fatal mistakes."

"But I get lots'a zee's," Gamzee objects, confused. "In the 'coon and everything."

The medic frowns. "This is really not the time to be trying to cover for yourself, novitiate."

Gamzee shakes his head, and the older troll sighs, obviously not convinced.

" _Make sure_ you're sleeping right, then," she says, "and I'll recommend a couple weeks of higher sopor concentration -"

"No!" Gamzee surprises himself with the shout.

The medic looks startled for a fraction of a moment, and then her eyes narrow and she says slowly, coldly, "Are you actually trying to get yourself culled, boy?"

"No!" Gamzee repeats, cringing back from her a little. "Just I got a weak mix for a motherfucking reason, follow?"

And then he relaxes ever so slightly as Lazapi places herself between him and the adult, a heavy, knife-like pen slipping from a strife card into her hand.

"Cute," drawls the medic. "Stand down, girl."

"I don't think I will," Lazapi says, "I agreed to stand for him, I'm not going to not do it."

The adult looks past her, at Gamzee. "Why would you use a reduced sopor dosage?"

Lazapi answers for him, before he can work out how to answer that won't get him culled on the spot, and he winces a little at her words. "He used to eat baked sopor. He's better now."

Apparently the medic does not think much more of this defense than Gamzee does, because her answer is quick and sharp. "There's no such thing as a former sopor user, girl, just psychotics and addicts who haven't relapsed yet."

"The Grand Highblood seems to think otherwise," Lazapi returns, her voice not quite steady enough to be considered intimidating.

The medic gives a doubtful snort. "The Grand Highblood."

"Yeah, the Grand Highblood, you know, the other troll on this ship wearing the Capricorn sigil?" Lazapi sounds a little less nervous now, a little more annoyed. She glances back to Gamzee. "He knows, right, he was the one who cut you off."

Gamzee nods. Lazapi doesn't wait for any further answer.

"So unless you want the Gee-Aich on you for culling his scion, Gamzee's gonna walk out of here with me."

The older troll studies them, both of them, for a long moment. "You understand that when he slips up, it's going to be you and your friends caught in the crossfire?"

Gamzee wonders if the way Lazapi winces is as obvious to the mediliquidator as it is to him. He hopes not.

But then, things aren't exactly working out the way he hopes today, because the cerulean smiles crookedly. Unpleasantly. "Or maybe he already has? Stand down, girl."

And it's Gamzee's turn to wince, to look away uncomfortably; surely if anything's going to convince her to let him be culled -

"No."

Gamzee looks up, to see her taking a determined step toward the mediliquidator. The bases of his horns itch, just slightly, as they sometimes do when someone else's psychic activity is not directed at him.

"You want me to protect my friends, you mean the other novitiates, right? Great. I'm starting with Gamzee."

"Novitiate, that's admirable, but -"

"So you're going to drop it, right now, you're going to forget you were even considering culling him."

There's a long moment of tense silence. The sensation of second-hand chucklevoodoos builds, and after a little hesitation, Gamzee reaches out as well; Lazapi may be his advocate, but there's nothing to say that he can't defend himself a little, and while the medic looks uncertain, she hasn't entirely backed down yet. So he feels out at the older troll's mind, and carefully pulls back when his power brushes up against Lazapi's and the uncertainty and guilt of her 'voodoos begins to bleed into the edges of his mind. 

Just as he realizes his mistake, Lazapi falters, looking over her shoulder at him in visible alarm. He taps a finger against one of his own horns and then gives an impatient nod toward the mediliquidator. Lazapi's eyes narrow, but she quickly returns her attention to the task at hand.

And having once accidentally dipped into Lazapi's work, he reaches out again, more carefully, staying clear of the mental spaces lit up with the other indigo's power and trying instead to feed a thick undercurrent of fright in beneath the more specific fears Lazapi is playing on.

Either it works as he intends it to or it doesn't work at all; he's not sure how much of a grip he's getting on the mediliquidator's mind, but Lazapi doesn't react again.

The medic reaches for her sylladex; the sharp curving point of an oversized steel nib is already in Lazapi's hand and Gamzee's not really sure when that happened. 

Slowly, the older troll lifts her hands in a placating gesture, and then withdraws a clipboard. She jots down a few things on the paper, and holds it out toward Lazapi. "Fine. If you're so sure he's worth the trouble - he's your problem."

Lazapi cautiously looks over the paper clipped to the plastic surface. "A... waiver?"

"What do you think my life expectancy looks like if he decides to go on a murder spree right after he's walked in and out of my office?" the medic demands. "You're going to have to give me something more substantial than 'oh he'll be good.' Unless you're not willing to take that kind of risk yourself, in which case -"

She doesn't finish, because that's the point at which Lazapi grabs at her, opens a shallow cut across the back of the medic's hand with the tip of her weaponized pen, and signs the paper in cerulean. "There, see," the girl snaps, "I've signed off on him, you don't need to worry about him anymore, are we done here?"

The adult glances over the signature on the page and then over the cut on her hand, before looking back to Lazapi with hard eyes. "I look forward to saying 'I told you so,' brat," she replies.

"I look forward to you not having the opportunity," Lazapi retorts, taking Gamzee by the arm. "Come on, Gamzee."

Her expression remains hard as they walk out through the waiting room of the crisis station, until they reach the corridor outside and she drops his arm, pausing to lean heavily against the wall.

Gamzee hesitates a moment. "You didn't have to up and do that," he says.

She fixes him with an incredulous look. "Oh. No? Because I'm pretty sure I told your auspistice I'd keep you in one piece, I think that was pretty definitely a thing that happened."

"Well, yeah, but you didn't got to motherfucking do that, either," Gamzee says, examining the wrapping on his wrist in lieu of looking Lazapi in the face. "I mean Imma try not to go all rampagey on no one, but the medilady had a point, I ain't the most stable motherfucker out there..."

"Gamzee, stop trying to retroactively talk me out of saving your life," Lazapi sighs.

Gamzee nods. "I think I can all up and do that."

"One other thing, though," she says, "one more thing I really feel I need to ask right now."

"Yeah?" Gamzee prompts.

"Where the _hell_ is your moirail in all of this?"

Gamzee blinks at her, mind going blank for a moment; he feels almost as if he's burned out on blind panic for the day because that's a question that should have him totally freaked out, and all he can really think is a tired, _fuck, not this, not now_.

Lazapi is still watching him, concern warring with annoyance on her face. "I know you have one, Gamzee, you've said you have a palemate," she reminds him. "And Equius knows about him, you almost went after Equius for speaking ill of him, so I'm pretty sure you didn't make him up."

Gamzee swallows. "He... ain't here."

"Yeah, I see that. Why not?"

"Because he's motherfucking not!" Gamzee snaps. "He ain't on the ship, and that's not the kind of miracle what wishing does any good with, ok?"

Lazapi frowns. "Can't you get him transferred in?" she asks. "You're the Gee-Aich's own scion, Gamzee, you're his favorite. Wouldn't you be able to pull some strings or something?"

He goes to wrap his arms around himself defensively and then stops at a protest from his still very sore shoulder, and hopes that the look of near-panic that must have crossed his face was lost in the wince of pain that the gesture provoked. "Fuck, no, he's..."

Gamzee is abruptly reminded of how much he hates lying to people he likes. Well, partial truths are easier to keep track of than outright lies -

(and aren't most of the motherfucking facts he's told himself, he's got rattling around in his thinkpan, aren't most of those half-truths at best anyway? Its the real facts, the real miracles, that really hurt)

\- so he looks away, and then back to Lazapi, and his voice wavers a little as he continues, "He's lowblooded, Lazsister, he's real low, and he's smart and stubborn and competent but that ain't gonna mean much if I go shoving his warmblooded ass in front of the Gee-Aich?"

There's something in Lazapi's face he can't quite read, like maybe she's trying to work out whether he's being sincere, or if maybe that was supposed to be an underhanded crack about Jormun's fate (and honestly he'd be perfectly happy if she _stopped_ making that assumption about what seems like half of what he says), or something. Before she can make a reply, though, they're interrupted by footsteps echoing in the hall behind them.

Gamzee turns to see Arsast and Sephar rounding the corner from the crisis station, and he smiles a little more broadly than is strictly necessary or appropriate under the circumstances. Sephar sneers at him in response, but that's the extent of her reaction as she and Arsast approach.

"Everyone still have all their bits attached?" Arsast asks as he approaches, looking Gamzee over as if he doesn't trust whatever answer the clown is going to give.

Gamzee shrugs the shoulder that hasn't been popped out of its socket and then back in in the past hour. "Dislocated shoulder an' sprained-up wrist," he replies. "And I figure maybe I oughta stay out of there until the Gee-Aich lets me back on regular sopor?"

Arsast fixes him with a sour look. "You should really stay out of the medic's station _anyway_ , Gamzee," he chides, and steps forward to lay a hand that is equal parts reassuring and proprietary on Gamzee's arm. "Did you have any problems then?"

Gamzee leans into the touch, just a little. "Little bit, Lazapi talked her down," Gamzee replies, and Arsast throws an openly grateful look in Lazapi's direction, and her cheeks tint just a little as she looks away. Gamzee clears his throat. "Everything cool with you motherfuckers?"

With a small snarl, Sephar spits, "No, you idiot, fuck you."

"Sephar," Arsast begins warningly, stepping between them, but Sephar makes no apparent effort to get past him.

She's still glaring at Gamzee as she adds, "Fuck you, we had to explain how I was already an obligate air-breather."

Gamzee laughs, the sound a little harsh. "Oh, is that all, I thought it might all be something _serious_."

"Gamz. Shut up," Arsast instructs, grabbing at him. "Apparently gill-trauma is kind of a big deal to trolls who actually use those for breathing."

Arsast looks over at Sephar, looking a little annoyed. "It probably wasn't necessary to _flash_ the medic to prove you didn't have any thoracic gills, though."

Sephar pouts. "It worked."

With a sigh, Arsast pinches the bridge of his nose and rolls his eyes. "Yes," he concedes. "Yes, it did. Come on, let's head back."

They return to find the common block empty except for Lydain, who sits curled up at the far end of one of the couches, brooding over a half-empty bottle of something that most definitely isn't Faygo. She looks up as the four of them come in, something between annoyance and resignation on her face.

"I wiped up the worst of the blood in the hygiene block," she says, as Lazapi slips silently down the hallway leading to the respiteblocks. "Since, you know, not very hygenic."

It takes a moment for Gamzee to realize that was something of a joke, and he cracks a belated smile. Arsast only nods curtly. "Yeah, thanks."

"I wouldn't count on me doing it again," Lydain replies sourly. "I mean, you guys did a pretty good job of messing up a perfectly good party."

Gamzee shrugs, a little apologetically, and Sephar practically bristles. "Gee, next time I get my neck torn open, I'll stop and think about how it's going to effect other people's evenings," she snaps.

Lydain takes a long pull of her drink, watching the others over the end of the bottle, her eyes ever-so-thinly ringed with black paint. "You know, you might," she says. "What, do you have something against fun?"

Gamzee decides he doesn't actually care to stay and see whether Sephar can manage to goad the circus girl into challenging her to some kind of duel without realizing what she's doing, and gives a bit of a forced laugh. "Well, I think I better go get cleaned up a smidge, so I ain't still covered in other folks when dinner comes?" he says, turning to go. "Speaking of, maybe you oughta try and keep from bleeding any more tonight, Sephsister?"

"Oh, fuck you," Sephar retorts.

"Ah, ah, you ain't supposed to," Gamzee chides, with a not entirely pleasant smile. "Having trouble with that tonight, huh?"

Arsast groans, and gives him a little shove toward the hallway. "You're not doing so great yourself, Gamz," he snaps. "Go on, if you're going to go."

Gamzee goes.

The rest of the evening is fairly uneventful - at least, no more overt conflicts emerge, although things are tense between just about everyone whenever two or more of the novitiates encounter each other. No outright fights, though, which Gamzee figures is probably doing pretty good.

At the end of the night, he's finally getting ready to crawl into the recuperacoon, when a voice behind him asks, "So how's the arm?" The voice is so small, he almost doesn't connect it with Sephar.

He turns a little, looking over his shoulder at her as he unwinds the bandage from his wrist so that it can get the full curative effect of the sopor slime, and shrugs. "I'm not about to claim it don't hurt to make you feel better," he replies, "but I've been getting on with worse before."

There's a moment's pause, and he adds, "How's the neck?"

Sephar glares, and turns away. 

As Gamzee steps into his recuperacoon, though, he hears her mutter something that might be, "I'll drown a little quicker, if it comes to that."

He chooses not to comment further, as he curls into the thin slime.

When he awakes the next evening, his arm is sore, a deep, dull pain that flares brightest in his wrist and less intensely but noticeably in his shoulder, but bleeds over into the space in between and which makes him flinch at the pressure as he scrapes off the slime. He dresses, trying to jostle his arm as little as possible, and wanders out to the common block, trying to re-wrap his wrist one-handed.

It doesn't work very well, but that's ok, because just as he enters the common block Arsast is finishing taping fresh gauze over the side of Sephar's neck. Arsast looks up, annoyed resignation obvious in his eyes as he watches Gamzee fight the looping lengths of bandage. "Minstrels, Gamz, are you trying to tie your hands together?"

Gamzee pauses, looking at the mess he's made of the task, his confusion starting to turn to irritation. "Not particularly."

Arsast groans, already halfway to his feet. "Honestly, how the fuck do neither of you have a moirail to chase you around?" he mutters, and Gamzee is distracted from his vague twinge of guilt by a rather more specific twinge of _pain_ that shoots through his shoulder as Arsast takes hold of his arm and starts wrapping the bandage, businesslike, around his wrist.

"Ow, motherfuck, I just got that arm put back where it's s'posed to be at," Gamzee objects, and Arsast adjusts his grip a little so that it's just significantly uncomfortable rather than mildly painful.

As Arsast finishes wrapping the bandage and Gamzee tries to get the striped, lightly armored gauntlet on over the wrapping, the block goes quiet in that uneven pattern that means people are shutting up as soon as they see why other people are shutting up. Gamzee looks around at the others - a little too nervous by the spreading quiet to quite be curious as to what conversation Sephar has been pulled into with Rossan and Lydain, while Lazapi sits with her sketch pad in her lap and her breakfast abandoned beside her, and Staiko finishes off his meal with a slight surliness that Gamzee's not even sure is any more pronounced than usual - and finally follows _their_ collective gaze over to the door.

"Oh, shit," Arsast breathes at his side, so quietly that Gamzee almost misses it. And, leaning against the door frame, casually scraping what's probably dried blood from the base of one claw, the Grand Highblood smiles unpleasantly.

"Capricorn. Lilit. In my adminisblock," the adult growls. "Yesterday, if you can fucking manage it."

Gamzee feels the pit drop out of his stomach and is a little glad that he hasn't had a chance to eat anything yet today as he skirts the low table, vaguely aware of Sephar falling into step behind him. Arsast makes to follow them, a fact that Gamzee mostly notices when the Grand Highblood glares past him and snaps, "In what galaxy does 'Capricorn and Lilit' translate to 'Percontativus'?"

Gamzee pauses, looking back in concern at Arsast, who stops in his tracks but stands as tall as he can as he answers, "I don't know, sir, the one where I'm their auspistice?"

The Grand Highblood snorts a laugh, a short, explosive sound. "And look at them, not clobbering each other or nothing. Get the fuck on with your morning, trainee."

Arsast looks as if he might object again, but when Gamzee catches his eye and shakes his head urgently, he gives a fairly convincing devil-may-care kind of shrug and makes a show of paying no more attention to the three as they leave the block. 

As they go down the hallway, Sephar walks perhaps a little closer at Gamzee's side than strictly necessary, but with the Grand Highblood looming in front of them, he can hardly blame her, and besides, this is _so_ not the time to be causing a scene. He resolves to swat her away if she tries to do something stupid and grab him or something - especially given that she's walking on his right, putting her nearest his injured arm - and otherwise ignores her.

The semi-aquatic girl looks around with wide eyes as they step into the Grand Highblood's adminsblock, and leans in a little closer to mutter, "Are those dyed in _blood_?"

Gamzee shrugs ever so slightly. "It's kind of... a thing with him," he replies under his breath.

"Ew," she responds. "Also, it is incredibly disturbing that you can be that casual about it."

"Ain't that the motherfucking truth," he mutters, and shuts up, because the Grand Highblood has retrieved something from the desk and turned back to them, leaning a little too casually against the desk.

"Either of you want to shed some light on why your fucking medical files ended up on my pile of shit to look at yesterday?"

"We had," they both say, although Gamzee finishes with,"an accident," and Sephar concludes with "a fight."

The Grand Highblood doesn't look impressed.

"We had an accidental fight?" Gamzee suggests.

The Grand Highblood really doesn't look impressed.

"He bit me," Sephar says, and Gamzee is a little impressed that she does not actually make it an accusation.

"An' then it took Arsast a little work to pull us apart and all," Gamzee adds.

The Grand Highblood _still_ watches them with a decidedly nonplussed expression that's starting to freak Gamzee out worse than outright rage would.

Finally, Gamzee grits his teeth and says, "It's because we're a couple of stupid motherfucking wriggers?"

The Grand Highblood chuckles nastily. "You don't give yourself much credit, do you, kid?"

"All due respect, sir, I got lots of example from you of how to up and look down on me." As Gamzee says it, he can see out of the corner of his eye that Sephar is staring at him, aghast, and she hastily steps away from him as the Grand Highblood advances.

"You think you got any call to expect better?" the adult hisses, grabbing Gamzee by the front of his shirt. "You think I'm fucking _patronizing_ you, boy?"

Gamzee's not sure if he actually expects an answer, and shrugs a little.

The adult leans in until their faces are a handspan apart, two scull-like painted patterns like a distorted reflection. "'Cause it seems to me, kid, you ain't got any call to complain about being PATRONIZED when the REASON YOU ARE NOT DEAD is my fucking PATRONAGE."

Gamzee winces away, tugging fruitlessly against the adult's hand twisted in the front of his shirt. "Didn't mean no offense, sir."

"Then you're fucking stupid," the Grand Highblood snaps, but he releases Gamzee - releases him so quickly that the younger troll stumbles backward, just a little. If the adult notices, he gives no sign as he returns his attention to the papers in his hand. "Although I guess that's pretty obvious already. Honestly, kid, your first trip into the crisis station, and you come out with a deferred cull order?"

"I came out in one piece," Gamzee points out.

To his surprise, the Grand Highblood shrugs a little. "At least you stopped fucking CODDLING the Kometes girl," he allows. "Quite a turnaround, that, going from protecting her from her own mistakes to letting her take responsibility for yours."

Although he doesn't dare look away from the Grand Highblood, Gamzee can see out of the corner of his eye that Sephar is looking at him with surprise. "Wait, she actually signed off on you?"

Gamzee risks a glance in her direction. "Yeah, so?"

"What, was she the one that gave it to you?" Sephar asks.

Gamzee 's not sure whether it's because of the question or his own quick response of "What? No!" but the Grand Highblood is looking at him a little too intently again.

"Gave WHAT to him?" the adult growls.

Sephar doesn't offer an answer, and Gamzee hesitates a moment too long, because suddenly the Grand Highblood has him by the horn, forcing his head back to look into his face. "The FUCKING HELL is she TALKING ABOUT, boy?"

Gamzee lets his eyes slide over in Sephar's direction, as he's pretty well incapable of turning his head with his horn in his ancestor's grip. "Hey, Sephar, come over here? I wanna finish ripping your motherfucking throat out."

With his free hand, the adult backhands Gamzee across the face. "Answer the FUCKING QUESTION."

"It wasn't nothing! I handled it!" Gamzee objects, pressing the back of one wrist to a lip that suddenly is streaming indigo.

The Grand Highblood shoves him away, so abruptly that he stumbles and falls backward. Gamzee catches himself on his elbows and pain shoots through the deeply bruised flesh of his right shoulder. 

He looks up as his ancestor advances on him again, an angry tension obvious in the broad shoulders. Gamzee scrabbles at the floor, half-crabwalking in retreat, but it's clear that even if he were on his feet there's no way he could outdistance the adult. The Highblood is unarmed for the moment, but Gamzee's not stupid enough to think that means anything. His strife portfolio, no doubt, is close at hand.

Anyway, it's not as if the subjugglator has any objection to getting his hands dirty.

And then -

"Trance. It was just fucking _trance_."

Gamzee looks up in surprise; he'd almost forgotten that Sephar was even still there. And although the anger in her voice isn't directed at him - or at least not mostly at him - there's something about it that cuts through his own panic. 

There's something familiar about it, almost, but he can't quite put his finger on it. It's not chucklevoodoo; his horns are quiescent, and he _knows_ what Sephar's 'voodoos feel like. Anyway, probably other things to worry about right now, right? He pushes himself to his feet, as the Grand Highblood looks slowly to Sephar.

"He'd give himself alcohol poisoning before he managed to get a real sopor high on that stuff," Sephar continues, looking a little surprised at her own boldness. "I mean, assuming he wasn't a whiny panicky paranoid grub about it, which he _is_."

"Lilit?" The Grand Highblood's voice is dangerously low. "Shut the hell up."

She nods, slowly, and shuts up as the adult returns his attention to Gamzee.

"This true?" the Grand Highblood demands.

Gamzee nods slowly. "Someone handed it at me, an' I didn't know what it was," he admits. "And I went and made myself sick to get rid of it when I realized after a couple sips. It wasn't never any kind of intentional, sir."

The adult fixes him with a calculating look for a long moment. "Who gave it to you?"

"I don't know!" Gamzee protests. "I didn't motherfucking see, and I didn't ask. It was my fault, sir, I should have been more careful."

"Fucking right you should have!" the Highblood snaps, glowering at him. "You _knew_ it wasn't just YOUR FUCKING NECK ON THE LINE when you RELAPSED."

"I didn't MOTHERFUCKING RELAPSE!" Gamzee's yelling now, too, but if there's any part of his thinkpan that's functioning clearly at the moment, it's pointing out that if he's going to get his ass culled it might as well be for something he's meaning to be doing, so yell he does. "I had a TINY FUCKING LITTLE BIT OF CONTACT with some shit that's so far from being in the same league as the BAKED SLIME I USED TO EAT that it goes a full orbit around NOT FUNNY and comes back to MOTHEFUCKING HILARIOUS!"

"AND IT LANDED YOU IN THE FUCKING CRISIS STATION!" the adult snarls in reply, stepping forward to loom over him, and a faint undercurrent of power echoes in Gamzee's horns that somehow just pisses him off more than it frightens him.

"Yeah, because my arm was fucked up!" Gamzee gestures pointedly at his shoulder, mottled black with bruises. "I am as MOTHERFUCKING SHARP as ever I was, and WHY THE FUCK would you even TRY AND GET ME CLEAN if you didn't think I could manage it?"

The Grand Highblood lifts a hand, and Gamzee braces himself for the blow he's sure is coming, but this time, the strike never lands. Rather, the Grand Highblood is pointing - pointing at Sephar. "Show me," he says coldly.

"Sir?" Suddenly all the bluster has gone out of Gamzee, forced out by confusion. He risks a glance at Sephar, who doesn't look like she has much more idea of what's going on than he does.

"You're sharp and sober and at the top of your game? Prove it," the Highblood instructs. "Lay your best fear-trip on her."

Sephar takes a step back. "What?" she demands. Gamzee can already feel the tingle in his horns and the irrational tightness in his chest of _her_ power beginning to work against _him_.

And he hits back, hard, one hand clamped to the side of his head just below his hornbed, sending out a wave of psychic influence that twists around her so abruptly that she is surprised out of her own fear-mongering. She fights to keep her composure - attempting to sabotage his effort to prove himself, or just too proud to crumble? Gamzee can feel her fear - her natural fear, as well as the panic he fights to impose on her - but it's anger that shows on her face.

Gamzee bears down until the rage is wiped from her expression and replaced by terror, until she backs away from him until she finds the wall at her back, and somehow she's managed to pull a heavy baton from her strife portfolio, but her white-knuckled grip on it doesn't speak of a mind collected enough to put it to use.

He risks a glance over his shoulder at the Grand Highblood, who is watching him with what looks like a kind of detached impatience. 

More, then.

He doesn't know if he can do more.

Except that he has to. 

So he pushes it, just that little bit further, and is barely aware of Sephar's whimpers because the singing of his horns abruptly becomes a scream and his vision goes white and black and indigo, and he clutches at his head as his legs fold beneath him. He falls, and doesn't notice when he hits the ground.


	24. Wandering My Own Remembrances

The horn pile grumbles a chorus of wheezing honks as Gamzee shifts, blinking hard, not sure if he's been awake or asleep or if it even makes any kind of difference at the moment.

Well, no, it should; if it doesn't, then he's fucked up again and Karkat's got enough other shit he needs to be taking care of. He just left, for fuck's sake, he's got his own life to keep in order. Gamzee's decided to deal with life; he can't _always_ be having his moirail deal with it for him.

The husktop, laying on it's back a short ways away, dings at him.

Gamzee considers ignoring it; surely there's more important miracles to be pondering right here, ones that don't require he haul himself up and out of the pile.

The husktop dings again.

It could be Karkat. (It _could_ be Tavros, but Gamzee is so far from knowing what he'd do with that miracle right now that he doesn't really consider it to be a reason to check.) If it's Karkat, then ignoring it's just going to freak the motherfucker out and that's not something he wants to be considering right now, not after the way the whole couple of weeks previous have gone.

With a groan and a chorus of honks, Gamzee half-climbs, half-rolls out of the pile, and goes to check his trollian. He immediately wishes he hadn't.

\-- arachnidsGrip [AG] began trolling terminallyCapricious [TC] --   
AG: Hey Makara  
AG: Come to the freaking computer already, will you?

Gamzee blinks at the screen as the text continues to come.

AG: Oh come oooooooon!  
AG: We don't really have to go through all this passive-aggressive hoof8east shit, do we????????  
AG: This convers8ion was 8oring enough the first time.   
TC: WhAt aRe yOu mOtHeRfUcKiNg tAlKiNg bItCh   
AG: Uggggggggh! W8ke up!  
AG: No w8 not literally.  
AG: Don't literally wake up.   
TC: you got to the count of however long it takes me to fucking decide im tired of counting  
TC: AND THEN I AM MOTHERFUCKING BLOCKING YOU, VRISKA   
AG: Look around, idi8!  
AG: You haven't had a hive in three perigees!

Shit. _Shit_. She's right. Almost as soon as he realizes it, Gamzee thinks he starts to see the edges of the block starting to go vague and shifty and unreal, and he drags the computer back into the horn pile with him, half-burrowing into the squawking heap as if surrounding himself in the pile will make it easier to hold onto his surroundings. He's not sure what happens if a memory dissolves - he doesn't have nearly as much experience with the dream bubbles as some of the others - but even if it just moves on to another scene, Gamzee's not keen on letting his wigglerhood respiteblock slip away that easily.

TC: shit  
TC: ShIt  
TC: :o(  
TC: hI VrIsKa

"Hi!" The response is verbal, and Gamzee looks up to find Vriska standing in one corner of the block, leaning casually against a wall that isn't quite the right sort of decor. He glares, not sure whether he's trying to will the setting back into properly being his own hive, or banish her, or what. She waves. "So great of you to catch on so quickly. Like I said - that was set to be a really _boring_ conversation."

He watches her through narrowed eyes. "Pointless one, too, if I got my recollection straight," he replies. "Considering."

Vriska laughs, a sound just this side of a cackle, and Gamzee wonders whether the slight edge of a headache that's building is a reflection of the abuse on his whole general nervous system he'd suffered in the waking world, or a memory of those first weeks when he'd been off sopor and been too scared of himself to stay that way and nearly died as a result. 

"What, because I was trying to get you to pass messages to Tavros last time around?" she asks, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she speaks. "Yeah, that would be kind of pointless, wouldn't it? Considering that I see him aaaaaaaall the time, these days."

Gamzee is halfway to his feet before he realizes it, the husktop winking out of existence as he stops concentrating on it. "Don't you motherfucking DARE lay a SINGLE FUCKING CLAW ON HIM-"

She's not in front of him anymore - greater skill in the manipulation of dream bubbles, or just quick on the wing? He couldn't say. " _God_ , Gamzee, I am so not here to fight you!" she says from somewhere behind him. He turns to face her finds her standing in the middle of a rocky canyon floor, the occasional bone or wisp of cobweb cluttering the ground at their feet.

Slowly, he looks up, and is not sure whether or not he ought to be surprised to see the great white bulk overhead. Vriska follows his nervous gaze, and sighs. "We can barely get into the bubbles, of _course_ our lusii aren't really here," she snaps in reply to the question he hadn't asked. "Just a memory. She won't need to be fed or anything."

She turns and starts walking away, wings shifting and folding and refolding behind her, and Gamzee tries to comprehend the idea of having a lusus that is such a fixture that Vriska's subconscious automatically includes her as a part of the scenery.

Gamzee follows after her. "Vriska, wait, don't just fucking wander away on me..."

"It's my memory, asshole," she retorts, and her wings flare briefly, a broad flash of blue before folding down her back again. "I'll go where I want."

He follows, although he is very much aware that they _are_ in Vriska's memory and only hers; Gamzee has never been to her hive before. Had never been to her hive, he supposes is the right tense now. If his hive is gone by now - and it almost certainly is, the empire does not leave perfectly serviceable hives where any squatter can move in after the proper inhabitant has been conscripted - then hers will have been demolished, too.

Gamzee wonders what has happened to her lusus, but doesn't ask; this is one situation where he is a little relieved that his Seagoat-Dad was well and away from his hive. Gamzee's lusus is nothing if not self-sufficient. From what he's heard of Vriska's, the spider... was not.

Vriska pauses at the bottom of the stairs and looks back at him. "If you're going to follow me, can you at _least_ stop thinking about demolition?" she demands. "It's hard enough for me to hold this memory without you trying to nudge it into a pile of charred rocks and spiderguts!"

Well, that would seem to answer that question. Gamzee tries to banish thoughts of what the real condition of this area of the badlands must be. He's not sure how well he succeeds, but Vriska doesn't object again.

Not about that, anyway.

She pauses after what seems an impossibly long climb but can't be more than halfway up the stairs, stops and leans back against the lip of a window sill, and Gamzee is startled to realize that her appearance has reverted for the moment to how she had been before the game - skinny kid, one lens of her glasses blacked out and robotic fingers gripping the stone ledge. It makes him do a double-take on his own appearance, and he's not sure whether it's a relief to find that he still towers at his eight-sweep-old growth, stripes at his forearms and ruff at his neck.

"Why exactly are you still following me?" she demands.

Gamzee shrugs. "Didn't really got any desire to go wandering off on my lonesome through your memory," he replies.

"So go find-" Vriska begins, and he cuts her off with a shake of his head.

"Fancy wandering my own remembrances even less, sister."

She sighs, shoves her robotic hand through her hair and seems abruptly to realize that it is, in fact, robotic; her appearance shudders and resolves itself as the sound-bodied, winged near-adult she's grown into in the two sweeps since the game.

"Fine. Follow me around. See if I care."

He chuckles. "Any motherfucker'd think you didn't want to see me, sis."

Vriska glares at him. "I was _hoping_ to get a hold of Kanaya or Eridan," she informs him. "At least you seem to know how to use a keyboard and check in."

She turns and starts climbing again, kicking petulantly at the rise of each step as she goes. "I've been hoarding luck _all week_ for this, and I can't even get either of the idiots I was aiming for."

"Hoarding luck?" Gamzee asks, a little taken aback.

"Well, yeah," she replies. "I mean, I can get myself into the bubbles pretty reliably, but finding anyone else in here - well, besides Aradia, I think it's a god tier thing - is kind of a lost cause without supplementing my luck a little..."

"Supplementing with...?" he growls.

Vriska stops again, looking over her shoulder at him. Being a few steps ahead of him on the stairs, her face is a little above his eye level, and as he looks up at her she rolls her eyes with a movement so exaggerated that it rocks her head a little to one side. "No one who can't afford to part with a little here and there."

"Spidersis, you gotta know that ain't exactly _reassuring_ ," Gamzee snaps. "Who all exactly are you sucking the fortune outta?"

"Just, like, random rebels, mostly!" she replies, nervous false cheer heavy in her voice. "Karkat offered, he's about as worried about fussyfangs and fishface as I am, but we kind of decided that if his luck goes sour, we might as well kiss the rebellion goodbye."

And Gamzee doesn't want to ask, but somehow he finds himself doing so, anyway, his mouth a little dry. "And Tavros...?"

Vriska actually glares at him. "I need Toreadweeb's luck like I need to lose a horn," she says flatly. "I don't know how he manages to stay upright with the kind of luck deficiency he has... oh wait! He doesn't!"

Gamzee growls a little as he steps forward, putting a little chucklevoodoo behind it - and how's that even work, when he's asleep or unconscious or whatever? - and Vriska lightly steps backward, up the stairs, maintaining her distance and her high ground. "Look, ok, I know you don't have any _real_ reason to believe me, but I don't actually want to watch the guy get himself killed again," she objects. "Back off, ok? Cool it. As long as he doesn't decide to run at me with a lance again or anything, we are _actually on the same page_ here, get it?"

And he can feel fangs nibbling at the edges of his mind, trying to catch hold; if he was lower-blooded, he knows, she'd have him all wrapped up to carry out her every whim by now, but she can't quite get a grip on his thinpan. But for all that she can't control him, he still feels her attempt, a pain in his horns that feels like nothing so much as like spider bites. When he tries to push back with his own power, it just intensifies the pain, and he winces, pulls back, both hands going almost involuntarily to his horns.

"...Gamzee?" Suddenly, she is hovering at his side - literally hovering, cerulean wings spreading a fine covering of fairy dust everywhere, ready to dart away in any direction at a moment's notice. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

He manages a smile that's really more of a grimace. "Fucking miserable couple of weeks, lately," he snaps, not wanting to go into details. Luckily, she seems to pick it up easily enough.

"Aw, fuck, are you hurt?" she demands. "Have you seriously been walking around the _dream bubbles_ injured? God, you idiot. Just remember up a form that isn't hurt."

And carefully, he tries, and finds his clothes changing to the softer, more casual fit of his pre-conscription t-shirt and sweatpants. Finds a little less muscle under his skin.

Finds his horns don't hurt, for the moment.

He looks cautiously at Vriska. "Thanks, I guess."

She shrugs. "What are friends for?"

Normally, he wouldn't use quite _that_ term for the two of them, but it doesn't really seem worth arguing at the moment.

A long moment passes, and Vriska turns away with a toss of her hair and a flutter of her wings, as if it no longer serves her purposes to be the attentive, concerned friend. Gamzee sighs and, for lack of a better option - he's still not sure what he'd find if left to travel through memories by himself, and isn't that a joke, when he'd rather trust Vriska Serket than the contents of his own pan - follows.

He's pretty sure that if she wanted to she could leave him behind in a way that he couldn't find her, anyway. And he can't say he's in any great hurry to wake up. Might as well keep on her red-clad heels for a little while, then.

Gamzee is shaken out of his reverie as his gaze travels over the walls of the cave, and he realizes that not only have they left the stairs behind in favor of a fairly even path that crunches with gravel underfoot, but the nature of the stone itself has changed. It's dryer, redder, rougher; the cave arcs above his head in a nearly perfect circle neither wider than it is tall nor taller than it is wide, just a tunnel with slight striations at about shoulder height. He pauses, and sure enough, Vriska must have been expecting him to follow, because it's only a moment before she stops and looks back at him again.

"What now?"

"Where the fuck are we, sis?" he asks. "This sure as fuck ain't under your hive no more."

"No, silly," she says, although she doesn't sound at all upset at the prospect of explaining. "This is... more recent."

"You mean like..." Gamzee trails off, and then steels himself and starts again, "You mean like, rebellion shit and all."

Vriska rolls her eyes. " _Duh_."

"Whoa, no, sister, I do not want to be getting my knowledge up on that," he says, raising his hands as if to defend himself. "No reason why I gotta be slipping that in my pan."

She blinks at him, her surprised look quickly resolving itself into a pout. "Oh come on, I'm trying to be nice and you're going to pull your stupid 'I don't want to understand things' routine _now_? Lame."

"No, I mean - Gee-Aich's got psychics he can call on what do things you never even dreamed of thinking to try," he tries to explain. "They up and tweezed your sign outta a blueblood, I know that for certain. Don't wanna be all up in assuming they couldn't get incriminating shit out of me, did the Highblood get the notion they should be looking."

Vriska gives him a withering look. "There is a not-really-all-that-thin line between self-sacrificing and stupid, Gamzee," she says. "And I don't mind sharing that _pretty much everyone_ thinks you passed it perigees ago. I mean, not that most of us didn't already have a pretty great idea that you had, like, _no_ functioning sponge cells left, but..."

Gamzee is saved from trying to think of a defense when she trails off, looking just a little alarmed. "Wait, the Grand Highblood knows my sign?"

"He's not sure on it," Gamzee says, and can't quite avoid a slight smirk at the look of confusion and fear on her face. "I mean last I got any info up on it, he seemed confused mostly 'cause normally motherfuckers don't end up with _more_ appendages after they get crippled. But he got 'Scorpio' quoted at him as what you was."

She shifts, a little uncomfortably, appearance flickering back for just a moment to the mechanical-limbed six-sweep-old, shimmering through the threshecutioner cadet's uniform which Gamzee would honestly be surprised if she'd worn more than just that single night, before settling back on her current appearance - an outfit which, he has to notice, uses the Insignia of Scorpio in a rather more subtle manner than the t-shirts she had worn as a kid. 

Vriska collects herself, and shrugs. "Isn't like I've been using my wriggling name, lately," she says, a little stiffly. "Thanks, though. For the warning."

"Might wanna be careful about using your Ancestor's name, too, ain't it kind of the point that she was as much up in being a Scorpio as you?" he suggests.

She looks as if she might argue, and then she deflates, wings drooping. "I _was_ going to come up with something else sooner or later, you know," she snaps.

Gamzee's not sure whether to believe her or think this is sour grapes on the girl's part, but he just nods anyway, blinking against the sudden fuzziness at the edges of his vision. 

"Shit," he says after a moment. "I think I'm waking up. We can argue 'bout whether I'm a useless paranoid fuck later, right?"

"Yeah, I guess. I hope so," she replies. "Kick Terezi in the shins for me, ok?"

Gamzee chuckles. "I'll tell her you said hi," he agrees. "You make sure Karkat and Tav know I'm thinking at them."

"Oh! Speaking of Karkat -" she begins, but as much as Gamzee desperately wants to hear what the rest of that sentence is, he abruptly finds himself staring at the indigo-dark insides of his eyelids, and everything hurts again.


	25. A Test or a Punishment

Gamzee attempts to examine his surroundings without opening his eyes. This does not work very well; all he can really tell is that he's curled on his side on a hard, cool surface. Cautiously, he opens one eye a little, and kind of wishes he hadn't.

Which is a little silly, because he's not sure where he would have expected, or wanted, to wake other than still in the Grand Highblood's chambers.

A little reluctantly, he opens both eyes and levers himself up on one elbow, a little stiffly. His face itches, the paint feeling weird and stiff along the lines scored diagonally across his cheeks, and when he lifts a hand to scratch, flakes of dried indigo come away on his fingertips.

"Fuck," he mutters, a little alarm leaking into his voice.

A low chuckle comes from the other side of the room, and Gamzee looks up quickly to see his ancestor standing in what he's pretty sure he remembers is the door to the respiteblock. He sits up, trying to scoot backward across the floor and quickly finding a wall at his back.

"I was wondering how long you were staying down," the Grand Highblood says, and if he's not exactly kindly about it, he at least seems in somewhat better humor than he had been when Gamzee last saw him. "Not that you've been out a terribly long time. I've seen fuckers take like a night to get up after a burnout."

Gamzee traces the crusty trails on his face with careful fingers. "Should I be worried I been bleeding out my motherfucking eyes?" he asks, a little hesitantly.

The Highblood shrugs. "Can you still see ok?"

"Well yeah," Gamzee confirms, "but I ain't never known bleeding eye sockets to be a good thing to be getting on, sir."

Another shrug. "I'm pretty sure you can't actually 'voodoo yourself to death, kid," the adult says casually. "This the first time you've burned yourself out?"

Gamzee nods carefully. "Seen a lowblood do it to his motherfucking self when I was littler, though," he says. "Motherfucker didn't get back up afters. 'Course, him it wasn't just eyes, I didn't all know you could put that much yellow in a skinny guy like him. Or take that much out I guess."

It suddenly occurs to him that he is babbling, and he shuts up.

The adult's expression takes on a kind of irritatedly pensive air, and he wanders over to his desk. As he jabs at a keyboard, he demands, "You remember the filthblood's sign at all?"

"Uh." _What_ was _Sollux's sign_ , wonders most of his mind and, _gee, it is probably a good thing you are so fucking loopy, why would you know that off the top of your head anyway,_ comments some small too-lucid bit of him.

"Answer, kid."

"I'm trying to get my remember on," Gamzee objects. "I just spent I don't fucking know how long passed out 'cause someone made me chucklevoodoo 'till I fried my pan out! It was... lines, like. Two of 'em, all connected and shit. Boxy."

"Like..." The Grand Highblood sketches a close approximation of the Insignia of Gemini in the air. Gamzee nods.

The adult responds with a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl. "Fuck. Motherfucking mirthless hell. We have _got_ to start doing juvenile conscription on those fucking Geminis or _something_ ," he snarls, but his attention is now mostly on the computer in front of him as he manipulates something on the screen, rather than on Gamzee. His voice subsides to angry muttering as he continues, apparently to himself, "There is _no fucking reason_ any bloodline should blow themselves to hell as often as those freaks do. And I was hoping to get a decent helmsman sometime this decade, too."

There's a long moment of silence punctuated by angry staccato typing and then the Grand Highblood looks over at Gamzee again. "You be needing anything else, kid?" he asks. His tone makes it very clear that Gamzee had better _not_ need anything else, so Gamzee silently shakes his head.

"Then get the fuck out. We're done here. We've _been_ done here," the adult growls. "And stay the fuck away from the sopor." 

The timepiece on the wall in the common block indicates that Gamzee has been in his Ancestor's adminisblock for something like three hours. He's missed most of the evening's... what was the evening schedule tonight? Combat training, he thinks. Yeah, that was it. He doesn't much relish trying to show up for just the tail-end of the session and he feels like crap and he's not even sure whether he's made the conscious decision _not_ to go until he makes it into the hygieneblock and sees his own face in the mirror.

His eyes widen as he looks at his reflexion, and even when he squeezes them shut the image hangs in his mind's eye. Face paint smudged where he was struck. Trails of dried blood that have pooled and traced diagonally across his cheeks, along the channels provided by the slightly-raised lines of scars that cross his eye sockets -

(no matter what other shit went down, he'd always been careful of the paint, because the paint was special, the paint was a warm-cool reminder that some things were miracles, but if there were no more miracles...? what was the point of)

\- no. 

He tries not to look in the mirror again as he turns on the tap to run a basin of hot water, and the hiss and splash of the water is oddly comforting, so he moves to turn on the faucet at the other two sinks as well, and then on impulse goes and turns on all the showers, too. By the time the basin is full, the mirrors are fogged with steam and he doesn't have to be so careful not to see an approximation of the fucked-up face he'd sworn not to wear again.

The washcloths in the rack next to the door are rough and rather thin, but he doesn't care enough to be gentle as he wets one and starts to wipe away the paint, not sure if the stinging at his eyes is from paint or emotion or trauma. He just needs the blood and the mussed paint off his face now, with the memory fresh in his mind of how easy the dreambubbles made it to remember himself back into an earlier state. 

Not that that would work here, here in the waking world, he reminds himself firmly.

He almost believes it.

When the basin in front of him is murky and tinted grey-lavender, he carefully lifts a hand to wipe away a patch in the middle of the mirror. Gamzee never thinks he looks like himself without his paint, but he kind of thinks that at the moment he's ok with not looking like himself for a few minutes. Ok with not being himself for a few minutes.

Except that the him that causes problems isn't in the paint, it's in the horns and the blood and the bloodline and the chucklevoodoos. 

But even with that knowledge, he somehow ends up sitting with his back to the wall and his face buried in a clean towel. The sound of the still-running water does a little to drown out his thoughts, or at least, he tells himself it does.

After a while - do other people really have some awareness of how much time passes, or is that some joke everyone else is perpetrating at Gamzee's expense? - the faucets and showers are shut off one by one, and he looks up to see a familiar, small form moving around the room, and he feels a stab of rapid _disappointment-guilt-relief_ that it's the familiar, small form with the hooked horns rather than with the nubby ones.

Arsast approaches him cautiously, dropping into a crouch that's all potential energy, just out of arm's reach. Gamzee offers what's meant to be a smile, but he kind of suspects that it looks like nothing of the sort. "Gonna pour some yells down me, bro?"

That brings a frown. Gamzee wonders if he's imagining the way Arsast's gaze doesn't seem to settle on his face.

"Gamz," the other boy says, his voice low and as intense as Gamzee has ever heard it - intense with sheer emotion; that Gamzee can tell, there's not a single spark of chucklevoodoo behind it, "we'll get to that in a moment. Where's Sephar?"

"Where's...?" Gamzee looks at him blankly for a moment, unable to produce coherent speech around the sudden knot in his throat.

" _Sephar_. Where is she?" Arsast insists.

"I dunno!" Gamzee chokes out, the towel slipping from his hands as he sits up straighter. "Last I saw, she was... she was... fuck, I-"

Before Gamzee really notices Arsast moving, the little troll has come closer, well within Gamzee's reach to strike him across the face. Not hard enough to do any injury, but it shakes him out of his panicky babbling.

"Gamz. What in mirth _happened_ in there?" Arsast's tone is no gentler, but there's a bit more worry in the set of his face.

"Wasn't hardly in mirth," Gamzee's gaze drops to his hands, folded in his lap. The inner wrists of his gauntlets are damp and streaked with paint. "I- she- the Gee-Aich-"

He pauses, looks up helplessly. "She was still standing when I went the fuck over."

Arsast reaches for him again and Gamzee winces, but this time it's not a blow; narrow fingers grip his chin, forcing him to look up. "Gamzee Makara, you are going to tell me what went down in that adminisblock, or so help me-"

As best he can with Arsast's hand on his jaw, Gamzee nods. "Could a brother put his face on real quick?"

Arsast hesitates, then nods, releasing him. "As long as it _is_ quick," he snaps.

Gamzee nods again, and it takes him a little longer than he'd like to fish the proper supplies out of his sylladex but one he has the paints in hand, the pattern goes on as rapidly as he can manage. He is, for the moment, deeply and profoundly grateful that Arsast is Circus as well; even if his auspistice doesn't wear paint, he has some idea of the significance of it.

"Alright," Arsast says, as the last block of color is filled in. "Talk."

"His Levity wanted to know... how we ended up in the crisis station, I guess," Gamzee begins, "an' I think I said some shit I shouldn't ought to have, but Sephar was the one what brought up the motherfucking sopor drink..."

Arsast gives a small displeased growl. Gamzee slumps a little.

"And I don't got any clue whether it was meant as like a test or a punishment to me or her or what or if my fucking ancestor's just taken complete motherfucking leave of his sanity..." Gamzee trails off, looking away.

"What _happened_?" Arsast demands, although his voice is less commanding and more shaken now. He seems to realize this, because he repeats himself, a thread of chucklevoodoos lending the authority that the tone alone doesn't convey, "What happened?"

"Gee-Aich made me fear-monger at her until I stopped being all up in the wakefulness miracles," Gamzee says - it feels like an excuse, it feels like a defense, it feels like a confession. Feels like a testimony, though he's not sure what he's arguing or to whose damnation. "I don't got any knowledge what happened after that. She was gone when I came to."

"Shit."

"I mean I didn't _notice_ any fresh stains in her color or nothing," Gamzee says quickly, looking up. "I thought... well I didn't proper _think_ but I kind of assumed she'd just left or..."

Arsast shakes his head, pauses, shrugs. "If that's the case, she never made it to class. Neither of you showed all evening. That's why I came looking," he says, and abruptly turns on his heel and stalks out, muttering quietly to himself.

Gamzee scrambles to his feet and follows. It doesn't take long to find Arsast in the respiteblock the other boy shares with Lazapi, at the computer, completely ignoring the chair in favor of bending over the keyboard. Gamzee peers over his shoulder at the screen.

___ **marvelouslyCanny** has contacted **stentorianStillness** ___  
MC: oh good, you're actually around.  
SS: / He//o to you too! /  
MC: yeah, sorry if I'm not at my ?very most charming?, Voll.  
MC: have you heard from Seph at all this evening?  
SS: / No? Should I have? /  
MC: well, it'd be ?nice? if you had. confirmation she wasn't in some incinerator somewhere or something.  
SS: / Sassy, did something happen? /ike something more? You're scaring me a /itt/e. /  
MC: turns out shit was not yet done hitting the fan with her and Gamz.  
MC: and ?speak of the minstrels?, just a second.

"Would you fucking cut that out?" Arsast snaps aloud, and it takes a moment for Gamzee to realize that it's directed at him.

"Uh, yeah, sorry bro," Gamzee replies, backing away, and then hurrying to his own respiteblock and the computer there, hoping he can remember how to spell Vollue's trolltag from that brief glimpse.

___ **terminallyCapricious** has contacted **stentorianStillness** ___  
TC: Uh  
TC: hI  
SS: / I'm sorry, do I know you? /  
TC: RiGhT, IdInG My fUcKiNg sElF WoUlD Be gOoD, HuH?  
TC: iT's gAmZeE.  
TC: GaMzEe mAkArA.  
SS: / Oh. /  
SS: / /ook, honey, I don't actua//y need to hear the detai/s from two peop/e at the same time? And my matesprit's kind of got first dibs. /  
SS: / Give us a chance to try and track Sephar down. /  
TC: yEaH I CaN Be dOiNg tHaT, SiStEr.  
TC: ...  
TC: YoU ThInK YoU'rE GoNnA Be fInDiNg sHiT?  
SS: / You'd better hope so. /  
SS: / I don't take kind/y to peop/e getting my friends cu//ed. /  
___ **stentorianStillness** has cut contact with **terminallyCapricious** ___

___ **marvelouslyCanny** has contacted **terminallyCapricious** ___  
MC: dude, ?fuck off?.  
MC: leave Voll alone.  
___ **marvelouslyCanny** has cut contact with **terminallyCapricious** ___  


Gamzee stares at the screen for a long moment before deciding that pacing would be a better use of his time.

A little while later, Arsast comes, and stands squarely in the middle of the doorway with his arms folded, waiting silently until Gamzee notices him.

"So Vollue had a few ideas of where Sephar might have crawled off to, if she was going to crawl off anywhere under her own power," he says. "I'm going to go look for her."

Gamzee nods. "I'll come-"

"No, you will _not_ ," Arsast snaps. "There is literally no way your presence is going to help. You're going to go to aftermidnight classes. I want you where reliable witnesses can keep an eye on you."

He pauses, and then adds, "And yes, I'm very aware of how stupid it sounds to refer to those guys as reliable witnesses."

Gamzee offers a hesitant smile. "Those motherfuckers aren't _that_ big of fuckups," he says, and Arsast gives a derisive snort.

"Well, they're less so than you, at least."

There's a moment where they both shift a little awkwardly, and then Arsast clears his throat. "You should make sure to grab some lunch before class," he says, heading toward the door of the respiteblock. "I know you didn't have time for breakfast this morning, and if you're going to bite someone it should really be for a better reason than just that you were _hungry_."

"What, not going to follow me around to make sure I actually get places?" Gamzee asks, a little surprised.

"I think I'm going to worry about the one who's actually still missing," Arsast snaps in reply, and is gone.

Gamzee glances back at the clock-display on the computer and figures he's got a few minutes before it's properly lunch time anyway, and... well, he should have thought of it sooner: if there's a possibility of shit going down over this, there's a few people who probably should know ahead of time. 

Anyway, he has a message to pass on, right?

To his relief, one of the handles he actually wants to connect to is actually lit up, and he slides onto the computer chair again as he opens a chat.

___ **terminallyCapricious** has contacted **gallowsCalibrator** ___  
TC: GoT A SeC, SiS?  
GC: G4MZ33?  
GC: F1RST T3LL M3  
GC: WH4T DO3S LOT4M M34N  
TC: mOtHeRfUcK TeReZi wHaT DoEs tEnTs aNd mIrTh gOt tO Do wItH AnYtHiNg  
GC: 1 F1GUR3D YOUD W4NT TO 4VO1D TH3 WHOL3 Y3LL1NG 4BOUT WH3TH3R YOU W3R3 YOU TH1NG TH1S T1M3!  
GC: YOU R34LLY H4V3 GOT TO BR34K TH4T N4STY H4B1T YOU H4V3 OF M4K1NG 1T S33M L1K3 YOUR3 D34D OR SOM3TH1NG  
TC: ShIt nO I'm jUsT DaNdY, HoW'd yOu eVeN HeAr bOuT NoThInG HaPpEnInG?  
GC: N3V3R UND3R3ST1M4T3 TH3 3FF1C13NCY OF TH3 L3G1SL4C3R4T1V3 RUMOR M1LL!  
GC: 4LSO YOU SHOULD TRY TO 4VO1D L34V1NG YOUR UNCONC1OUS BODY LY1NG 4ROUND TH3 H1GHBLOODS M41N 4DM1N1SBLOCK 1N TH3 M1DDL3 OF TH3 N1GHT  
GC: 1TS NOT JUST H4PL3SS SUBJUGGL4TOR TR41N33S H3 D34LS W1TH YOU KNOW  
TC: oH  
TC: FuCk  
TC: yEaH Uh hE KiNdA MaDe mE 'VoOdOo aT My cOaUsPiSiStEr uNtIlL I KeElEd oVeR FrOm sTrAiN.  
GC: TH4T 1S L3SS TH4N OPT1M4L!  
TC: TeLl aT Me sOmEtHiNg i aIn'T AlL ToO ClEaR AbOuT, LaWsIs.  
TC: sO YeAh tWo tHiNgS  
TC: OnE We dOn'T AcTuAlLy kNoW WhErE ShE GoT To aFtEr sO If iT AiN't aLtOgEtHeR GoOd nEwS I FiGuRe yOu oUgHtA KnOw sOs yOu cAn bE CaREfUL AnD ShIt aNd mAyBe hElP WaTcH A MoThErFuCkEr'S BaCk iF It cOmEs tO tHaT  
GC: >:/  
GC: 1 DONT KNOW HOW MUCH H3LP 1LL B3 BUT 1F YOU N33D M3 1LL DO WH4T 1 C4N  
TC: :o)  
TC: oThEr iS I HaD A WiCkEd oDd mIrAcLe oF A BuBbLy DrEaM WhIlE I WaS PaSsEd oUt  
TC: SeRkEt sAyS HeY.  
GC: R34LLY?  
TC: wElL AcTuAlLy sHe sAyS AlL To kIcK YoU. ;o) BuT I HaVe gOt eNoUgH DrAmA WiTh mY OwN ThAt sIdE DoWn aT Of tHe qUaDrAnT GrId.  
GC: D4MN P1R4T3  
GC: TH4NKS G4MZ33   
TC: YeAh nO PrObLeM  
TC: i bEtTeR Go nOw, yOu tAkE ReAl cArEfUlL CaRe aNd sHiT.  
GC: YOU TOO  
GC: YOU 3SP3C14LLY!  
___ **gallowsCalibrator** has cut contact with **terminallyCapricious** ___

With a sigh, he hunts out how to send a message to someone who is currently offline, and then ends up sitting and staring at Equius's handle for a minute or two before closing the messaging program without sending anything, not sure what to say.

He doesn't really _want_ to go anywhere, but it's only breakfast and dinner that's provided in the novitiate housing; if he wants lunch - or at least if he's going to get lunch; he's not sure _want_ is precisely the right word - he'll need to seek it elsewhere. 

Maybe that mess hall where they'd run into Equius, weeks and weeks ago.

He tells himself he's not hoping to run into the blueblood there again, and he's really not sure at all whether he means it.

It probably doesn't matter whether he means it, because Equius is not in fact there. The mess hall is quite a bit quieter this time of night, and he has no trouble finding an open table at which to pick at his food; the sandwich he picked out tastes like ash in his mouth. 

Despite his lack of appetite, however, he makes an effort to appear _very_ interested in his meal as he spots Rossan and Lydain approaching. It would seem that his attempt to appear far too busy eating to bother falls flat - Rossan takes the seat next to him, and Lydain claims the other side of the table, sitting with her boots up on the bench so as to take up at least two people's worth of space.

"So," Rossan says after a moment, "you gonna tell us what you're playingat, or do we have to sit here looking all curious atyou allnight?"

Gamzee looks at him out of the corner of his eye for a long moment, and then shrugs. "I'll tell at you when I got any idea what's all up in going around here," he says, and takes another bite of the sandwich, chewing it with some difficulty.

"Awww, come _on_ ," Rossan wheedles, and Gamzee turns to glare at him.

"I ain't fucking amused," he growls in warning. "Motherfucking back off, brother."

Lydain props an elbow on the table, leaning her chin delicately against the heel of her hand. "Do you have something to hide, Gamzee? Come on, clown to clown."

"I upright swear, motherfuckers, I don't know what's going down, ok?" Gamzee says, crossing his arms defensively. "I got knocked out, right, and Sephar is missing."

" _Missing_?" Rossan demands. "I don'tknow ifyounoticed, Gamzee, but we areon a fuckingspaceship! Wherethefuckwouldshego?"

"I don't even know, how would I know?" Gamzee retorts. "Arsast's out looking for her. There's ain't fuck all else I can be telling you until he gets back."

"What didyou _do_ to herthough?" Rossan presses.

Gamzee turns toward him, showing a few more fangs than usual. "Nothing what the Gee-Aich won't all be fucking eager to order at you, you keep sticking your snout in where you been advised not to." He's not sure the threat actually carries any weight behind it, but Rossan seems to buy it.

There's a moment of awkward silence, and Lydain climbs to her feet, her movements brisk, business-like. "You coming to class?" she asks. "We should go pretty soon."

Gamzee nods slowly. "Yeah," he says simply.

She clears her throat a little. "You understand if this turns into a blood feud, I'm staying neutral," she says. "I like you, but not that much."

"I got that expectation loud and clear, sister," Gamzee replies. "Thanks for sayin' it, though." Almost without meaning to, he glances at Rossan, who shrugs.

"Nopromises."

Gamzee's not sure whether he trails after the other two clowns as they head off to class or whether they're intentionally serving as some sort of escort; maybe it's a little of each. He doesn't really want to feel like he should be being escorted... or maybe it's just that the proper escort is far too far away...

Not a productive line of thought, he realizes, but he can't quite find it in himself to banish it.

When they get there, Lazapi and Staiko have already arrived and claimed a couple of seats which, by some ineffable logic, seem to have over the time they've been attending this class been determined to be the best seats. Lydain grabs the seat next to Staiko and there is a brief, hushed exchange between them; Gamzee's not sure he likes the glance that Staiko sends in his direction. He claims a spot in the corner where he can get the wall at his back. It's reassuring on some level, not that he actually expects anything to happen.

At least the schoolfeeding session tonight is an automated lecture rather one of the occasional classes actually led by an actual instructor.

The recording has begun to play at the front of the room - not that Gamzee is hardly paying attention, his mind is in too many places at once and none of them are the Government and Governance lecture. He's not so distracted, however, as not to notice when Lazapi gets up and moves over to sit next to him.

"Are you ok?" she asks in an undertone.

He nods, ever so slightly, without looking at her. "Sephar's missing," he mutters, after a moment, and now he watches her out of the corner of his eye.

Lazapi seems to consider this for a moment, and shrugs.

"Missin' as in, we ain't got an idea if she's even alive," Gamzee clarifies.

She gives an exasperated little toss of her head. "Yes, Gamzee, I got that, that was pretty clearly implied under the circumstances."

"So it's only down to being a motherfucking problem if people _you_ care about get culled where I'm around," he growls.

"Don't be so melodramatic," she hisses, sounding a little uncomfortable. "You don't even know she got culled. It's not like she's never sulked off to hide from the rest of us before."

Gamzee growls again, wordlessly and under his breath, and tries to pay attention to the lesson. Either her interest wanes or she takes the hint, and although Lazapi doesn't move back to her original seat, she doesn't make any effort to engage Gamzee again.

A few hours later, having sat through all the schoolfeeding expected of him, Gamzee finds himself hard pressed not to just flat-out run back to the novitiate quarters. Not that he's sure he wants to know what, if any, news will be waiting for him, but it's got to be better than just sitting around _wondering_. Right? Even making a conscious effort not to run people down in the corridors, he's still easily the first to make it back, long legs and impatience making short work of the distance.

When he enters, he barely has time to register that _yes_ , Sephar is _there_ , on the couch with Arsast - 

\- let alone that she is springing to her feet and moving toward him, with an expression he can't quite read in the fraction of a moment -

\- before she's reached him, almost colliding with him, arms wrapping around his waist. Two of the three points on her forked horn are poking him rather hard in the middle of the chest. He flails a little.

"I thought you were _dead_ ," she growls, sharp, loud enough and close enough that the grit of her voice resonates in his ribs. Her clothes are, he realizes, soaked through; his own are quickly becoming damp and clammy.

Gamzee's arms hang awkwardly in the air at his sides; displaced by Sephar's hug but not quite willing to return it. "Me?" he demands.

"Yes, you. One minute I'm full of your chucklevoodoos, next you're on the floor and your eyes are bloody and the Gee-Aich is yelling at me to get out," she snaps, digging her horn into the front of his shirt a little more and showing no intention to let go of him. "What the glub was I _supposed_ to think?"

Gamzee tries to push her off, to no avail, and casts a helpless look over her head at Arsast. With a sigh - though not an entirely annoyed-sounding one - their auspistice comes over and somehow manages to peel Sephar off of Gamzee. Arsast catches first her hand, then his, holding onto them as much as holding them apart.

"This can't happen again," Arsast says after a long moment, and winces just a little; looking down, Gamzee sees that Sephar's grasp on Arsast has tightened, brought claws to bear, drawing a few small drops of indigo from the back of Arsast's hand.

"You said you weren't breaking up with us over this!" she says, her voice accusing and quickly becoming shrill. Hysterical. Gamzee reaches out to give her a half-hearted kick in the ankle, and he's not sure if it's to shut her up or to get Arsast's attention on less life-and-death matters, because the prospect of losing his interference raises a hard lump of dread in Gamzee's chest as well.

And sure enough he finds himself yanked back away from Sephar, as Arsast sighs through gritted teeth, "I'm _not_. Just. It can't, ok? _Either_ of you could easily have... just not come out of this, you know?" His gaze flicks from Gamzee to Sephar, and Gamzee finds even that inconsistent look hard to meet. "I'm here to keep you from killing each other, not yourselves. You have to be more careful."

Gamzee looks down at his feet, at his own big boots, one of which is trailing laces; at Arsast's perfectly laced and tied footwear and at Sephar's feet in soggy socks, and he nods.


	26. A Collective Sigh of Relief

Nights pass.

That's really all he can say about it. Nights pass. Things go back to normal, or at least what passes for normal. Probably things go back to normal a bit faster than he would have expected, had he thought about it - moping about is a luxury in the fleet, one that they can ill afford. Gamzee's a little more acutely aware of the shifting balances of mistrust among the group than he had been before, but even that fades with time.

It's a bit of a surprise when, almost a week after the party and its aftermath, he logs onto the computer one morning after returning from Carnival and is practically ambushed by teal text.

___ **gallowsCalibrator** has contacted **terminallyCapricious** ___  
GC: SO TH3R3 YOU 4R3  
GC: B4D FORM M4K4R4  
GC: V3RY B4D FORM  
TC: wAiT WhAt  
GC: WH4T DO YOU M34N WH4T  
GC: YOU TOLD M3 YOU M1GHT H4V3 JUST ST4RT3D 4 R3V3NG3 CYCL3 4ND TH3N YOU D1SS4P34R3D FOR 4 W33K  
TC: Oh rIgHt sOrRy  
TC: wElL EvErYtHiNg wOrKeD ThE FuCk oUt aNd nOnE Of uS MoThErFuCkErS Is dEaD  
TC: So yOu cAn sToP GeTtInG YoUr wOrRy oN  
GC: 1 KNOW TH4T  
GC: 1 H34RD FROM 3QU1US WHO H34RD FROM L4Z4P1 N1GHTS 4GO  
GC: BUT 1 SHOULD H4V3 H34RD FROM YOU!  
TC: sHiT, SoRrY, SiS  
GC: 1 THOUGHT W3 W3R3 FR13NDS  
GC: OR 4T L34ST 1N C4HOOTS  
TC: I DoN't tHiNk yOu gEt mUcH MoRe iN CaHoOtS ThAn uS TeRsIs  
TC: i mEaN MoThErFuCkInG CoNsIdErInG  
GC: Y34H  
TC: AnD FuCk i rEaLlY Am sOrRy  
TC: wAsN't tHiNkInG, YoU KnOw  
TC: OnE EmPtY PaNnEd mOtHeRfUcKeR OvEr hErE AnD AlL.  
GC: >:/  
TC: iNtErPeRsOnAl rElAtIoNsHiPs hUh, hOw dO ThEy eVeN WoRk?  
TC: We jUsT DoN't kNoW  
TC: mIrAcLeS WhEn tHeY dO, ThOuGh  
GC: Y3S OK  
GC: MY C4R3FULLY CONSTRUCT3D MOCK OUTR4G3 C4NNOT ST4ND 1N TH3 F4C3 OF YOUR CLOWN1SH S3NT1M3NT  
TC: SwEeT  
GC: DONT PUSH YOUR LUCK  
GC: 4NYW4Y W3V3 GOT 4NOTH3R G3T TOG3TH3R COM1NG UP N3XT W33K 4ND 3QU1US SUGG3ST3D M4YB3 W3 COULD M33T 4T H1S PL4C3 TH1S T1M3?  
GC: 4PP4R3NTLY H3S GOT 4CC3SS TO SOM3 STUD1O SP4C3 H3 C4N B3 F41RLY SUR3 NO ON3 3LS3 1S GO1NG TO B3 US1NG  
TC: tHaT SoUnDs bEtTeR ThAn aLl uS PaRaDiNg tHrOuGh yOuR PlAcE, YeAh.  
TC: WiTh hOw i'M PrEtTy sUrE SoMe cErTaIn jAwFlApS WaS StArTtInG To wAgGlE AnD aLl.  
GC: DYSOR3 C4N GO SO4K H1S H34D  
TC: wHy aIn'T We bEeN UsInG EqUiBrO's pLaCe bEfOrE ThIs tHoUgH?  
GC: B3C4US3 H3S 4N OBS3SS1V3 D3T41L OBS3SS3D FR34K WHO SP3NDS 4LL H1S FR33 T1M3 WORK1NG 4ND 1TS T4K3N L1K3 FOUR P3R1G33S FOR H1M TO B3L13V3 TH4T TH3 OTH3RS WHO SOM3T1M3S US3 TH3 STUD1O 4R3 MOR3 SOC14LLY FUNCT1ON4L 4ND TH343FOR3 NOT L14BL3 TO W4LK 1N 4T 4NY M1NUT3 1F W3 W4NT TO US3 1T FOR 4 FR33SH1FT ONC3 1N 4 WH1L3?  
GC: JUST A SHOT 1N TH3 D4RK  
TC: HaHa yEaH SoUnDs aCcUrAtE  
GC: DONT G3T TOO SMUG G4MZ33  
GC: YOUR3 4 SP4CY 4S FUCK P4ND4M4G3 C4S3 W1TH 4 T3ND3NCY TO DROP OFF TH3 SC4NN3RS 3NTIR3LY W1THOUT W4RN1NG FOR W33KS 4T 4 T1M3 4FT3R 4LL  
TC: fAiR's mOtHeRfUcKiNg fAiR, SiStEr.  
TC: AnD WhAt'Re yOu bY ThAt rEcOnInG?  
GC: P3RF3CT  
TC: oF CoUrSe i oUgHtA KnOwN  
GC: 1M 4 L1TTL3 HURT YOU D1DNT S33 TH4T COM1NG TO B3 HON3ST  
GC: 4NYW4Y TH3 N3W M33T1NG PL4C3 1S DOWN 1N L3V3L 9 S3CTOR 3 BLOCK 9-3-215  
GC: YOU KNOW HOW TO G3T TH3R3?  
TC: No bUt i cAn sUrE Be fInDiNg oUt.  
TC: tHaT SeCtOr 3 oR SeCtOr E By tHe wAy?  
GC: OH TH3 L3TT3R SORRY  
TC: AiN't a pRoBlEm  
GC: SO UH 1 H34RD YOU W3R3 1N ON3 P13C3 4ND 4LL BUT 4R3 YOU 4LR1GHT?  
GC: 1 4SK 1N 4 STR1CTLY BUS1N3SSL1K3 W4Y YOU UND3RST4ND  
TC: yEaH I CaN't hArDlY AlL Up aNd cOmPlAiN BoUt nOtHiNg  
TC: ArM's a lItTlE StIfF SoMe eVeNiNgS BuT NoThInG I CaN't sTrEtCh OuT  
TC: hOrNaChE's gOnE AnD AlL  
TC: I FiGuRe i aIn'T AbOuT To dRoP AnD StArT BlEeDiNg oUt aNy nEw aNd iNtErEsTiNg oRiFaCeS Or nOtHiNg.  
GC: GL4D TO H34R 1T  
GC: W3LL 1 H4V3 4N 3SS4Y ON PR3 D14SPOR4 1NT3RCHROM4T1C T4R1FF V1OL4T1ONS TO PR3T3ND 1 ST4RT3D ON THR33 D4YS 4GO >:P  
TC: sIs i'M NoT EvEn sUrE WhAt aNy oF ThAt mEaNs  
GC: TH4TS OK 1M NOT SUR3 1 DO 31TH3R  
GC: 1 B3TT3R GO G3T 1T F1GUR3D OUT  
TC: AiGhT I'lL SeE YoUrSeLf nExT WeEk i gUeSs?  
GC: YOU B3T  
GC: SM3LL YOU L4T3R  
___ **gallowsCalibrator** has cut contact with **terminallyCapricious** ___

In some ways, it's almost a little eerie to consider that the upcoming meeting is only the third opportunity he's had for contact with his friends and loved ones among the revolutionaries. Well, probably at least fourth, technically speaking; Gamzee's pretty sure there was at least one meet up that he missed when he was too busy tooling around neglecting to tell anyone he was still alive. Still, the feeling of expectation is almost mundane this time around.

He's not sure whether to mourn the lack of nervous energy, or be glad it's gone. Even the task of looking up where Equius's workshop is and how to get there doesn't carry the same kind of fraught excitement that finding the Legislacerator Academy the first time did.

Gamzee wonders if he can still blame it on some kind of emotional burnout from earlier in the perigee, but it seems odd and wrong that such a thing would last longer than the aches in his joints and his horns. Or is this normal? Settling in, falling into a routine?

How are emotions even supposed to work, anyway?

He wants a pie. Nice to know _some_ things are constant, he supposes.

The nights slip away from him, and almost before he knows it he's setting out to meet up with Terezi and Equius. His destination proves to be in an area a little more industrial in design than the portions of the ship he's spent much time in so far, the passages high and narrow and not well marked out. He's pretty sure he must have passed the right turning at least twice before he finds it.

When he gets there, Terezi is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall next to a closed door with her arms crossed over her chest. She turns her head sharply in his direction as he approaches; her nostrils flare slightly, and then she grins.

"There you are! I almost came looking for you," she informs him. He shrugs.

"You pretty much almost had to up and look for me," he replies. "What, they make it all mazy down here for a reason? Keep motherfuckers from wandering off?"

Terezi makes a small noncommittal sound. "Try navigating it by scent," she suggests dryly. "I swear, it is like I have spent the last four perigees with my face shoved in a tin can. Often, a tin of canned feet."

"So is there a reason we're getting our loiter on our here?" he asks after a moment. "Or do we maybe just got a wicked appreciation for each other's company, because if it's that then I really kind of was hoping maybe to be getting appreciative of some other motherfuckers' company in the close future."

She smirks slightly, and sighs theatrically. " _Apparently_ , someone else left the studio a mess and we aren't allowed in until Equius has the disaster zone under control."

"He does got some understanding at you can't see it and I don't motherfucking care, right?"

"Thanks, Gamzee. Thanks." There's a pause, and then Terezi adds, "You can't tell because I'm wearing my glasses and also because my eyes are one solid color, but I'm rolling my eyes right now."

Gamzee laughs, the noise startled out of him as much as anything. "That's cool."

The door opens, swinging outward and nearly hitting Terezi, who scrambles out of the way at the last moment. 

"Sorry for the delay," Equius says, a little sheepishly, as they file inside. The space is fairly small but still significantly bigger than the legislacerators' study booths; Gamzee supposes it might be about the same size as his respiteblock, not counting the low counters that run around three sides of the block. Banks of cupboard doors line the space under the counters; little magnets hold notes and diagrams to the walls above. 

There's a work table in the middle of the room, and it and most of the counters are empty but for a few scraps of wire or miscellaneous metal and plastic bits that Gamzee can't hope to possibly identify; the remaining portion of counter-top is filled with a pile of tools and half-constructed robotics. A single sheet of paper sits on top of the debris.

Gamzee can't make out the note from where he stands, but the ink is blue and he imagines it's probably fairly strongly worded.

With a sweeping, theatrical motion, Terezi clears the last few stray washers and rivets from the work table and withdraws her husktop from the sylladex. "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

Equius sighs, burying his face in one hand. "Are you always going to showboat like that, Pyrope?"

"Quite possibly," she acknowledges with a grin, and Gamzee moves to look over her shoulder as she starts up the machine.

 

It's the work of moments for Terezi to bring up the chat program, although Gamzee can't quite tell how she does it - something with a coding prompt, which he's never really understood how to use. There's a long moment, and...

And nothing happens. A tiny line of text at the bottom of the screen blinks on and off: searching for connection.

Gamzee clears his throat. "Uh, Tersis? What's going down? Where are they?"

"Do I look like I can see them?" she snaps in reply, reaching back to give him a little shove away.

Now Equius comes around to look as well, resting one hand on the table next to the computer as he crowds in to see. "Is something the matter?"

Terezi hunches her shoulders a little. "I'm sure they're just running a little late," she snaps. "Or we're running early or something."

"You know we aren't," Equius retorts. "If anything, _we're_ running late."

"Uh, guys?" Gamzee prompts. "What's wrong?"

"We don't know," Terezi growls. "Probably nothing. They just haven't logged on yet."

" _Could_ we have gotten the time wrong?" Equius asks, sounding a little less sure of himself. "Perhaps we miscalculated somehow..."

Terezi shakes her head. "If there was miscalculation, it was on Sollux's end. We shouldn't be nearly far enough from Alternian space to need to compensate for anything, so long as he gave us good data..."

"And if he didn't?" Gamzee asks, although he's pretty sure he knows the answer.

"Then we are rather out of luck," Equius says gravely. "Not totally; I believe Pyrope has a list of alternate times that connection might be possible...?"

"Well, yeah, but most of them are, like, when we're supposed to be in class or in the middle of the day or something," Terezi explains. "I mean, we can definitely try and camp on the line then and see if we can get anything through, but this is about the only time that's convenient to get everyone together..."

"Assuming any of those fucking numbers do any better than this," Gamzee points out.

"I was... intentionally not thinking about that, thanks, Gamzee," she pouts.

Equius clears his throat. "He has a point."

"I know he does!" Terezi snaps. "But it's not a useful one!"

On the screen, the little "searching for connection" note blinks out, and is replaced by, "connection found: 6121025". The three of them breathe a collective sigh of relief. Terezi clicks it, and the blue-and-red chat window opens.

**\-----** user **gallowsCalibrator** logged onto connection **6121025**  
 **\-----**  
 **\-----**  
 **\-----** user **twinArmageddons** changed connection name to **IiKnowHowTwoChangeThii2AndYouDont**  
GC: M1ST3R 4PPL3B3RRY BL4ST YOU ST4ND 4CCUS3D OF M4K1NG US FR34K TH3 FUCK OUT W1TH YOUR T4RDYN3SS  
GC: WH4T DO YOU H4V3 TO S4Y FOR YOURS3LF  
TA: whoa chiillax there tz  
TA: were liike fiive miinute2 behiind 2chedule iif that  
GC: >:[  
TA: deep breath2  
TA: try to avoiid flaiiliing about and runniing iintwo wall2  
GC: S3R1OUSLY THOUGH WH4T K3PT YOU  
TA: iimportant rebelliion bull2hiit  
TA: 2orry  
GC: W3LL  
GC: 1 SUPPOS3 G1V3N YOUR 3X3MPL4RY R3CORD  
GC: 4ND G1V3N TH4T W1TH YOUR H4CK1NG 4BL1L1TY YOUR C4P4C1TY TO R3T4L14T3 F4R OUTSTR1PS MY C4P4C1TY TO M4K3 YOUR L1F3 M1S3R4BL3  
GC: 1 W1LL L3T YOU OFF W1TH 4 W4RN1NG  
TA: thank you  
GC: TH1S T1M3  
TA: you are two graciiou2  
GC: 1 KNOW 1TS 4 PROBL3M  
TA: anyway kk ii2 2tiill wrappiing thiing2 up becau2e 2ome people refu2e two talk two anyone but mii2ter reliigiiou2 fiigure hiim2elf but the re2t of u2 are pre2ent and accounted for  
GC: OH W41T 1V3 B33N M34N1NG TO 4SK  
TA: no tz ii wiill not bear your freaky mammal 2tyle off2priing  
GC: DONT WORRY N3P3T4 VOLUNT33R3D FOR TH4T WH3N W3 W3R3 FOUR  
GC: TH3N SH3 3XPL41N3D HOW M4MM4LS R3PRODUC3 4ND 1 4LMOST THR3W UP  
TA: thank you 2o much for that lovely anecdote  
GC: YOUR3 W3LCOM3  
GC: 4NYW4Y 1 W4S GO1NG TO 4SK S1NC3 W3 H4V3 SO M4NY P3OPL3 L1N3D UP FOR 4 TURN ON TH3 CH4T WOULD 1T B3 POSS1BL3 TO RUN MULT1PL3 CH4TS 4T ONC3  
GC: 1F W3 H4V3 4NOTH3R COMPUT3R 4ND 4LL  
TA: ii dont 2ee why not  
TA: ii mean iit2 not liike iim actiively tran2criibiing the me22age2 accro22 the connectiion or anythiing iim ju2t faciilitatiing the 2iignal  
TA: youd have to iin2tall the cliient on the other machiine but that 2houldnt bee beyond your techniical capaciity tz  
GC: SW33T  
GC: NOT TH4T W3 H4V3 4NYTH1NG R34DY TO GO TOD4Y BUT M4YB3 W3 C4N TRY TH4T N3XT T1M3  
TA: 2ound2 liike a plan  
TA: 2tiill no word from ed?  
GC: 1 THOUGHT YOU D1DNT W4NT TO T4LK TO H1M  
TA: ii dont  
TA: but there2 no fun iin 2nubbiing hiim iif he wont 2top giiviing u2 the 2iilent treatment  
GC: H4V3NT H34RD FROM H1M  
GC: SORRY  
TA: not your fault he2 a jacka22  
GC: >:/  
TA: 2o kk2 not here yet liike ii saiid  
TA: and np ii2 kiind of ant2y so iif you and the clown dont have any pre22iing bu2iine22 ii wa2 thiinkiing 2he and eq could go fiir2t

Terezi pauses, her fingers still on the keyboard, and turns to Gamzee. "I know you've been reading; any objections?"

Really, Gamzee would _like_ to have first shot at the chat - Sollux did say that everyone _but_ Karkat was there, which pretty well implies Tavros is waiting - but, well, he _did_ snatch the computer away from Equius last time. Now that he's not actively panicking or anything, he does feel kind of shitty about that. And Nepeta already kind of exists in a constant state of mildly pissed-off at him; no point in establishing a pattern of being "the guy who keeps her from talking to Equius."

He shrugs. "Not really."

"Awesome," she says, and pushes the computer over to Equius. "Go ahead and log me out, if you don't mind."

Equius gives her a stern look, although it's a rather abbreviated stern look, whether because he's impatient to talk to his moirail or because he realizes that stern looks have very little effect on the blind girl. Then his attention is taken up by the chat window in front of him, and Gamzee thinks it best not to try and look over his shoulder.

With a slight sigh, Gamzee boosts himself up to sit on the edge of a counter, letting his feet swing so that the heels of his boots knock gently against the cabinet door below. He glances at Terezi, but she's moved to lean against the closed door with her nose quite literally in a book. 

After a moment, Equius looks up. "Do you think you could see fit to stop kicking the cupboard?" he asks, irritation clear in his tone.

"Oh, yeah, sure," Gamzee says, somewhat sheepishly, as he stills his feet.

"It's just that it's distracting," Equius says, the edge gone out of his voice at Gamzee's easy compliance. "And there's a chance you'll mar the door."

"Yeah, I get it." 

Equius returns his attention to the computer, and Gamzee folds one leg under himself, turning in his seat. His gaze strays to the magnet-and-note festooned wall beside him. Most of the papers are technical diagrams and even more technical notes that Gamzee can't begin to understand and doesn't particularly want to, written out in Equius's heavy, precise hand. Set off to one side are a few papers that are obviously not Equius's work - a still life of a bunch of tools, a page of doodles of little robots of varying degrees of cartoonishness. A study of Equius in profile.

After a long moment, Gamzee looks away. Lingering on the drawings seems almost invasive, somehow.

His gaze drops to his own hands, folded over his bent knee, and he fidgets, tracing the outlines of the dots on his pants as he waits. 

After a while - it seems both impossibly soon and interminably long, Equius speaks up, gingerly pushing the computer back away from himself. "Who's next?"

Gamzee exchanges a glance with Terezi - or at least he glances at her, and she cocks her head a little in his direction, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "Him," she says after a moment, with a little nod.

"Really?" Gamzee's already sliding to his feet as he asks it. 

She shrugs. "Well, yeah, it's pretty simple. I mean unless there's something that desperately needs to be discussed with someone that I'm not accounting for... I figure each of us wants to talk to two people, one of those people is the same, and I don't mind leaving Vriska waiting. So for the minimum amount of passing it around on either end..." She starts ticking things off on her fingers. "You and Tavros, you and Karkat, me and Karkat, me and Vriska, right?"

"Shit, that's smart," Gamzee says with a grin.

Terezi puts on a show of incredibly unconvincing modesty, nonchalantly picking at the claws of one hand. "Yeah, well, it's been known to happen."

Equius types in a few more lines of text, then passes the husktop to Gamzee, who wastes no time in signing in.

**\-----** user **centaursTesticle** logged off  
 **\-----** user **terminallyCapricious** logged onto connection **IiKnowHowTwoChangeThii2AndYouDont**  
 **\-----** user **adiosToreador** logged onto connection **IiKnowHowTwoChangeThii2AndYouDont**  
AT: oH THANK GOD SOMEONE HALFWAY RATIONAL,  
TC: NoPe jUsT Me bRo :o)  
AT: eHEH YEAH i KNOW,  
AT: i STAND BY MY PREVIOUS STATEMENT,  
TC: sHiT YoU MuSt bE HeLlA DeSpErAtE YoU ThInK I'm rAtIoNaL  
TC: Or eLsE I BeEn gOnE WaY ToO LoNg  
AT: wELL i'M NOT GOING TO ARGUE WITH THAT,  
AT: yOU'VE BEEN GONE WAY, wAY TOO LONG,  
AT: bUT i SWEAR SOME OF THESE PEOPLE ARE INTENTIONALLY, mALEVOLENTLY OBTUSE,  
TC: tHaT BaD? ShIt, tAvBrO  
AT: i SPENT THREE HOURS TONIGHT, tRYING TO EXPLAIN THAT i COULDN'T EXPLAIN THE CONCEPT OF ALLERGIES, tO AN OWL,  
AT: hER HEAD'S LIKE SEVENTY PERCENT OCCULAR MASS, aT LEAST, sHE'S BARELY GOT THE BRAINPOWER FOR CUSTODIAL IMPRINTING,  
AT: aND WHO EVER HEARD OF BEING ALLERGIC TO OWL DANDER, aNYWAY, hOW DID HE EVEN FIGURE THAT OUT,  
TC: FuCk iF I KnOw, bRo, tHaT's a sTrAIgHt uP PuZzEl To mE.  
AT: yEAH,  
AT: vRISKA THINKS HE'S FAKING, tOO,  
AT: i'M WILLING TO GIVE HIM THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT, bUT THAT STILL DOESN'T MEAN, i CAN EXPLAIN TO A NOT VERY INTELLIGENT, hIGHLY TERRITORIAL BIRD, wHY SHE NEEDS TO STAY AWAY FROM HIM, wHEN PRETTY MUCH THE ONLY DISTINCTION SHE MAKES BETWEEN TROLLS, iS, mY-tROLL, aND NOT-mY-tROLL,  
AT: aT BEST i COULD MAYBE TRAIN HER TO ATTACK HIM ON SIGHT,  
TC: wHiCh aIn'T AnY KiNd oF SoLuTiOn i'M GuEsSiNg?  
AT: i WISH,  
TC: I dUnNo bRo sOmEtImEs yOu gOtTa lEt fOlKs dO DuMb sHiT AlL FoR ThEiRoWnSeLvEs i gUeSs  
TC: aiN't aLl oF Us aS ShArP As yOu  
TC: BuT ThIs mOtHeRfUcKeR HaS GoTtA Be bRiGhTeR ThAn tHe bIrD, RiGhT?  
AT: yEAH, i'M PRETTY SURE HE IS,  
AT: hONESTLY i'M STARTING TO GET A LITTLE DISALLUSIONED, wITH THE WHOLE CONCEPT OF TROLLISH INTELLIGENCE, aFTER SPENDING SO MUCH TIME AROUND LOTS OF OTHER TROLLS,  
TC: yEaH I FeEl yOu  
TC: NoThInG ElSe iT MaKeS It eAsIeR To fInD StUpId sHiT To gEt InTo  
TC: i vOtE We fInD A NiCe eMpTy aLtErNiA-LiKe pLaNeT SoMeWhErE AnD MaKe uS A hIvE In tHe eXaCt mIdDlE Of mOtHeRfUcKiNg nOpLaCe  
AT: oH, mAN, tHAT SOUNDS NICE,  
AT: cAN THERE BE HERDS OF SOMETHING MAJESTIC,  
TC: ShIt wE CaN HaVe tHe mOsT MaJeStIc hErDbEaStS In tHe kNoWn mOtHeRfUcKiNg gAlAxY  
TC: aLl rEgAl aNd sHiT  
TC: HeAdGeAr bIgGeR ThAn yOuRs  
AT: lET'S NOT GET AHEAD OF OURSELVES, hERE,  
TC: oK ThEn  
TC: YoU CaN HaVe tHe bIgGeSt hOrNs oF AnYtHiNg oN PlAnEt  
AT: tHANK YOU,  
AT: <3  
TC: <3  
TC: i mIsS YoU  
AT: i KNOW, mE TOO,  
AT: i MEAN, i MISS YOU, tOO, nOT THAT i MISS MYSELF, tHAT WOULD BE SILLY,  
AT: iS EVERYTHING OK OUT THERE, rELATIVELY SPEAKING?  
AT: vRISKA SAID SHE RAN INTO YOU IN THE DREAMBUBBLES, a COUPLE WEEKS AGO, aND USUALLY BEING IN THERE MEANS YOU GOT KNOCKED OUT, oR SOMETHING,  
AT: aT LEAST FOR MOST OF US,  
TC: I'm gOoD  
TC: kInDa hAd a lItTlE PsYcHiC BuRnOuT BuT I'm oK NoW  
AT: oW, tHAT'S NO FUN,  
TC: MoThErFuCkInG TeLl Me aBoUt iT  
TC: wHaT AbOuT YoU, YoU StIlL In oNe pIeCe?  
TC: NoT ToO MuCh wEaR AnD TeAr?  
AT: nO, i'M OK,  
AT: i'VE BEEN KIND OF, jUST A LITTLE BIT, tIRED AND SORE THE LAST FEW WEEKS, bUT i THINK THAT'S JUST THAT WE'VE BEEN RATIONING SOPOR PRETTY HARD, sO i HAVEN'T BEEN SLEEPING AS WELL,  
AT: aND NOW i KIND OF FEEL LIKE AN ASSHOLE, fOR COMPLAING ABOUT NOT GETTING ENOUGH SOPOR, tO YOU, cONSIDERING,  
TC: aW, No, dOn'T, AiN't nOtHiNg gOiNg wItH At mY SoPoR SiTuAtIoN WhAt iSn'T My oWn fAuLt  
TC: YoU'rE ThE OnE AlL Up aNd gEtTiNg oN ThE HeRoIcS  
AT: hEROIC OWL WRANGLING,  
TC: yEaH ExAcTlY  
AT: tHAT, wAS SARCASM,  
AT: oR MAYBE IRONY, i'M STILL NOT CLEAR ON THE DIFFERENCE, rEALLY,  
TC: WhIcHeVeR, WhO EvEn kNoWs tHaT ShIt?  
TC: aNyHoW ThOuGh i'M fOr rEaL BrO, I'm rEaL PrOuD Of yOu.  
TC: ReAl jEaLoUs, tOo!  
TC: i aIn'T BeEn uP To mUcH BuT FiNdInG NeW AnD InTeReStInG WaYs tO GeT My aSs iNtO tRrOuBlE.  
AT: tHAT BAD, hUH?  
TC: I'm fUcKiNg bOrEd oUt oF My gOuRd wHeN I AiN't fReAkEd tHe fUcK OuT.  
AT: wELL IT'S NOT LIKE IT'S CONSTANT EXCITEMENT OUT HERE, oR ANYTHING,  
TC: i dOn'T HaRdLy cReDiT ThAt nOnE NoW BrO  
AT: iT'S NOT,  
AT: eSPECIALLY WHEN i CAN'T TAG ALONG ON THE SCAVENGING PARTIES OR ANYTHING, bECAUSE i'M NOT IN GOOD ENOUGH SHAPE, tO RIDE FOR LONG DISTANCES, lET ALONE WALK,  
TC: Aw sHiT, I Am jUsT StIcKiNg aLl mY LeGnUbS In mY MoUtH AlL Up aNd oVeR ThE MoThErFuCkEr aIn'T I?  
TC: sOrRy  
AT: iT'S NOT LIKE IT'S YOUR FAULT, gAMZEE,  
AT: i THINK MORE THAN ANYTHING IT BUGS ME BECAUSE, i KNOW i'M THE BEST ANIMAL HANDLER WE HAVE, sO i'M ALWAYS A LITTLE NERVOUS THAT SOMEONE WILL GET ATTACKED BY SOMETHING, oR SOMETHING LIKE THAT, wHICH i KNOW IS SILLY, aND MAYBE A LITTLE CONCEITED,  
TC: NaH  
TC: aIn'T No cOnCiEt wHaT I CaN SeE In nOnE Of tHaT  
TC: YoU GoT AnYoNe eLsE WhAt cAn dO ShIt wItH FaUnA At aLl?  
AT: tO A CERTAIN EXTENT,  
AT: tHERE'S ONE GIRL WHO CAN COMMUNE WITH AVIANS, bUT NOT ANYTHING ELSE,  
AT: aND A GUY WHO CAN SENSE WHERE ANIMALS ARE FROM MILES AND MILES OFF, aLTHOUGH HE CAN'T ACTUALLY COMMUNICATE WITH THEM, oR COMMAND THEM, oR ANYTHING,  
AT: sO I'M A LOT MORE VERSATILE, tHAN EITHER OF THEM,  
TC: mAyBe iT's aT BeInG LiKe aN EcToClOnE ThInG?  
TC: MoStA Us pSyChIc tYpEs iN ThE GrOuP Be oN KiNd oF ThE StRoNg eNd oF ThIs sHiT RiGhT?  
AT: yEAH, i GUESS SO,  
TC: aNd sHiT MoSt oF ThE OtHeR InDiGo kIdS GoT LiKe sPeCiAl sPeCiAlIzEd kInDs oF VoOdOoS AnD MiNe aRe jUsT AlL ReGuLaR ScArEs? lIkE HoWs tHaT EvEn wOrK AnYwAy, mY AsHsIs aLl mAkEs a mOtHeRfUcKeR ThInK He'S DoWn tO DrOwNiNg iN GoOd aIr, i sUrE As mOtHeRfUcK DoN't tHiNk i cOuLd dO ThAt, bUt i dOn'T ThInK I EvEr kNoWn hEr wOrKiNg tHe wIcKeD FeAr fLoW WhAt sHe dOn'T Do tHe dRoWnY ThInG...  
AT: hUH,  
AT: i REALLY DON'T KNOW ANYTHING, aBOUT THAT KIND OF THING, bUT YOU COULD BE RIGHT,  
TC: ShIt i aM So nOt eVeN GeTtInG At wHaT I'm sAyInG At oN HeRe rEaLlY, YoU GeT Me?  
TC: mIrAcLe iF AnY Of wHaT I'm yApPiNg bE In tHe sAmE HiVe aS SeNsE.  
AT: nO, i THINK YOU MIGHT BE ON TO SOMETHING, gAMZEE,  
AT: i'M NOT QUITE SURE YET WHAT, bUT I THINK IT'S SOMETHING,  
TC: If yOu'Re sAyInG At tHaT I GuEsS BrO.  
TC: fUcKiNg mIrAcLeS AlL ThIs pSyChIc sHiT Is, iSn'T It?  
AT: hAHA, pROBABLY,  
AT: oH, wAIT, kARKAT'S BACK,  
AT: dO YOU WANT TO TALK TO HIM?  
TC: I DoN't wAnNa nOt tAlK At yOu, bUt yEaH I Do?  
AT: oK,  
TC: sOrRy tO RuN On yOu, mOtHeRfUcKeR :o(  
AT: nO, i UNDERSTAND, cOMPLETELY,  
AT: gO TALK TO YOUR MOIRAIL,  
AT: tELL HIM HE'S DOING A GOOD JOB, bECAUSE HE DOESN'T SEEM TO LISTEN TO ANY OF US, wHEN WE SAY IT, sO MAYBE YOU'LL HAVE A LITTLE MORE LUCK,  
TC: HaHa hE AiN't iN AcTuAlItY AlL ThAt aLlErGiC To pRaIsE, He jUsT LiKeS To aLl aCt aT He iS.  
TC: bUt i'Ll tElL FoR HiM ThOuGh  
AT: oK,  
AT: i WILL LET HIM ON, tHEN, aS SOON AS i SAY GOODBYE TO YOU, wHICH i GUESS i AM DOING NOW,  
AT: i LOVE YOU, gAMZEE,  
TC: YoU KnOw i gOtTa cOmE RiGhT BaCk aT YoU WiTh tHaT, MiRaClE MoThErFuCkEr.  
TC: <3  
AT: <3 <3  
AT: i WILL TALK TO YOU IN A FEW WEEKS, i GUESS,  
AT: tAKE CARE  
TC: dOuBlE FoR YoU, HeAr?  
AT: hEhE, sURE,  
AT: <3  
 **\-----** user **adiosToreador** logged off  
 **\-----** user **carcinoGeneticist** logged onto connection **IiKnowHowTwoChangeThii2AndYouDont**  
TC: BeSt fRiEnD!  
CG: YOU KNOW IT SAYS AN AWFUL LOT ABOUT MY LIFE THAT TRYING TO DECIPHER YOUR QUIRK IS DOWNRIGHT RESTFUL.  
TC: bRo iS EvErYtHiNg cOoL WiTh yOuRsElF ThOuGh?  
CG: YEAH, I THINK SO, WHY?  
CG: AND WHAT ABOUT YOU, VRISKA SAID YOU SOUNDED LIKE YOU MIGHT BE IN TROUBLE.  
CG: ARE YOU OK?  
TC: ShIt, uHhHhHhH, LoNg sToRy?  
CG: I AM A COMPLETELY FUCKING CAPTIVE AUDIENCE, GAMZEE, SPIT IT OUT.  
CG: YOU DIDN'T GET IN MORE TROUBLE OVER THAT COMPLETE UNMITIGATED DISASTER YOU STUMBLED INTO ASS-FIRST LAST PERIGEE, DID YOU?  
TC: fUcK No, bRo, tHaT AlL BlEw rIgHt aLoNg, hIgHbLoOd aIn'T MeNtIoNeD NoThInG AnD I SuRe aS ShIt aM NoT AbOuT To.  
CG: THEN WHAT'S GOING ON?  
TC: I'm gEtTiNg aT It BrO, YoU CaN AlL CaLm YoUr tItS, Ok?  
TC: oNe oUr mOtHeRfUcKiNg iNdIBrOs aLl hAd hIs nInTh sOs wE HaD A BiT Of a pArTy?  
TC: AnD SoMe mOtHeRfUcKeR GaVe mE A TrAnCe aNd i dIdN'T ReAlIzE ThAt sHiT HaD SoPoR AlL Up iN UnTiL I HaD CoMmEnCeD WiTh tHe sLaMmInG.  
CG: OH MY FUCKING GOD.  
CG: SHIT, GAMZEE, HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW THAT?  
TC: HEY  
TC: ain't like i ever went down that kind of fucking fancy shit  
CG: OK, OK, CALM DOWN.  
CG: IT'S OK.  
CG: I MEAN IT'S NOT LIKE TRANCE IS EXACTLY FANCY, BUT IF YOU DIDN'T KNOW, YOU DIDN'T KNOW.  
TC: sOrRy  
CG: JUST GO ON.  
TC: So i kInD Of gOt mY FrEaKoUt aLl oN RiGhTeOuS  
TC: aNd tHeN I KiNd oF MaYbE EnDeD Up hAvInG SlOpPy mAkEoUts a lItTlE WiTh mY FuCkInG AsHgIrL AlL AcCiDeNtAl lIkE  
CG: I THINK I JUST HURT MYSELF FACEPALMING.  
CG: IF I HAVE A BLACK EYE I'M BLAMING YOU.  
TC: :o(  
CG: HOW THE FRESH FUCK DO YOU ACCIDENTALLY MAKE OUT WITH SOMEONE?  
TC: WeLl sEe i wAs aLl iN A ReAlLy gOoD PaNiC AnD ShE WoUlDn'T LeAvE Me aLoNe sO I KiSsEd hEr bAcK  
TC: aNd tHeN I BiT HeR AnD WhEn aRsAsT PuLlEd uS AlL ApArT I HuRt mY FuCkInG ArM.  
CG: ARSAST'S YOUR AUSPISTICE, RIGHT?  
TC: YeAh  
TC: sO BuT AnYwAy tHeN We bOtH HaD To gO DoWn aT To tHe cRiSiS StAtIoN To gEt pAtChEd aNd tHaT WeNt oK ExCePt tHaT ThEy hAd tO SeNd a fUcKiNg rEcOrD FoR ThE GH AnD He wErEn'T BeSt pLeAsEd nOnE  
TC: He tOlD DoWn aT Me tO AlL MoThErFuCkInG ChUcKlEvOoDoO On sEpHaR UnTiL I BuRnEd oUt aNd pAsSeD OuT :o(  
CG: SHIT  
TC: tHaT's wHeN I Up aNd rUnNeD InTo sPiDeRsIs iN A DrEaMbUbBlE.  
CG: YEAH, SHE MENTIONED THAT. HENCE ME FLIPPING MY HORNBEDS WORRYING ABOUT YOU.  
TC: I'm gOoD  
TC: aNd sEpHaR's gOoD EvEn tHoUgH BuT ShE WeNt oFf aNd sUlKeD AnD ScArEd uS AlL ShItLeSs.  
CG: OK, SO JUST TO CHECK:  
CG: YOU ARE IN STABLE ENOUGH MENTAL CONDITION TO UNDERSTAND THAT THERE WAS LITERALLY NO PART OF THAT STORY THAT WAS NOT INCREDIBLY EMBARASSINGLY STUPID, RIGHT?  
CG: LIKE SOME OF THAT PHYSICALLY HURT TO READ.  
TC: YeAh i kNoW :o(  
TC: bUt sOmE Of iT HuRt tO Do, tOo, tHoUgH.  
CG: I BELIEVE IT!  
CG: YOU NEED TO BE MORE CAREFUL, GAMZEE.  
CG: REFRAIN FROM DYING HORRIBLY, THAT'S ALL I'M ASKING.  
CG: IT SHOULD NOT BE THAT HARD!  
TC: HoNk  
CG: DON'T YOU HONK AT ME, I KNOW PERFECTLY WELL THAT'S GAMZEESE FOR "I AM AWARE THAT KARKAT HAS A POINT SO I'M JUST GOING TO ACT LIKE AN IMBECILE NOW AND HOPE IT DISTRACTS HIM."  
TC: sOrRy  
CG: YOU'RE OK NOW, THOUGH? YOU'RE SURE?  
TC: MoThErFuCkInG PeAcHy, bEsT FrIeNd.  
TC: WhAt aBoUt yOu bRo?  
CG: WHAT ABOUT ME.  
TC: jUsT VrIsKa wAs aLl aBoUt tO DrOp sOmE FuCkInG ReVeLaTiOn aBoUt yOu bUt tHeN I WoKe uP AnD I NeVeR DiD HeAr hEr aNd iT's bEeN EaTiNg aT My pAn sInCe?  
TC: SoMeThInG Go dOwN I OuGhTa kNoW AlL AbOuT?  
CG: OH.  
CG: LIKE TWO WEEKS AGO?  
CG: UH.  
CG: I MEANT TO TALK WITH YOU FIRST BUT THEN IT KIND OF HAPPEND ANYWAY BEFORE I HAD A CHANCE.  
TC: :o/ tHaT SuPpOsEd tO MaKe aNy sEnSe bRo? cAuSe i kNoW ThAt aIn'T My sTrOnG PoInT BuT I GoT No cLuE WhAt tHe mOtHeRfUcK YoU ArE On aBoUT.  
CG: FUCK IT.  
CG: WHAT DO YOU THINK OF "THE UNSIGNED?"  
CG: GAMZEE?  
CG: SHIT YOU THINK IT'S STUPID, DON'T YOU.  
TC: WaIt uP OnE FuCkInG MoMeNt bRo, i nEvEr dId sAy aNy oF ThAt!  
TC: ... i jUsT WaS StIlL TrYiNg tO FiGuRe oUt WhAt aLl yOu wAs aLl mEaNt aT ThErE, WaNnA GiVe a bRoThEr a mOtHeRfUcKiNg hInT At wHaT He'S SuPpOsEd tO bE OfFeRiNg hIs vIeW Up aT?  
CG: OH, RIGHT.  
CG: AS A TITLE.  
CG: FOR ME.  
TC: ShIiIiIiIiIiIiT, BrO! :oD  
CG: I MEAN OK MAYBE IT'S A LITTLE HEAVY-HANDED BUT I REALLY COULDN'T PUT UP WITH BEING CALLED "SECOND SIGNLESS" ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE ANY LONGER.  
CG: I DON'T KNOW IF I'M GOING TO TACK ANOTHER NAME ON IT, I KIND OF LIKE IT THE WAY IT IS.  
TC: nAh, pAlEbRo, tHaT Is tHe fUcKiNg bEsT.  
TC: SuItS YoU.  
CG: AND WE'RE STARTING TO ACTUALLY GET IN REAL CONTACT WITH ADULT REBELS NOW, SO THERE'S NO FUCKING WAY I WAS GOING TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY IF I KEPT INTRODUCING MYSELF BY MY WRIGGLING NAME.  
CG: FEFERI'S GOING BY HERITRIX LIFETIDE NOW, FOR SIMILAR REASONS.  
TC: bUt sHiT BrO I Am jUsT So mOtHeRfUcKiNg bOwLeD ThE FuCk oVeR On tHiS MiRaClE, LoOk aT YoU AlL GrOwEd uP AnD ChOoSiNg a nAmE!  
TC: FuCkInG PrOuD Of yOu, bEsT FrIeNd. :o)  
CG: REALLY. YOU MEAN THAT?  
CG: YOU DON'T THINK IT, LIKE, MAKES ME SOUND LIKE A PRETENTIOUS DOUCHEKNUCKLE OR SOMETHING.  
TC: hElLs nO!  
TC: ThAt iS ThE MoSt uPrIgHt hElLa sWeEt tHiNg i dId hEaR In aGeS.  
TC: yOu cAn tElL FiShSiS I LiKe hErS, ToO :o)  
TC: ShIt i aIn'T EvEn tHoUgHt bOuT WhAt mInE MiGhT ShOuLd bE.  
CG: I'M SURE YOU'LL THINK OF SOMETHING.  
CG: PROBABLY IT'LL ONLY MAKE ANY SENSE TO YOU BUT HEY THAT'S PRETTY PAR FOR THE COURSE.  
TC: yOu lOt eVeR GeT VrIsKa tO StOp mAkInG A DoWnRiGhT fOoL OuT Of hErSeLf wItH HeRs?  
CG: YEAH ACTUALLY, I THINK SHE SETTLED ON MARQUISE LIGHTWEB.  
CG: WHICH IS, YOU KNOW, STILL HORRIBLY TACKY BUT AT LEAST IT'S HORRIBLY TACKY FOR MARGINALLY SOCIALLY ACCEPTALE REASONS.  
TC: HaHaHa yEaH  
CG: YEAH BUT ANYWAY I REALLY DID MEAN TO TALK TO YOU BEFORE I STARTED USING THE TITLE, BUT THEN A COUPLE OF WEEKS AGO...  
CG: WELL OK SO THERE'S THIS SUFFERERIST TEALBLOOD NAMED CHANRY DEIMOS WHO REALLY WOULD BE A PRETTY GOOD LEADER IF SHE WASN'T SUCH A DEPLORABLE BULLY.  
TC: tEaL SuFfErErIsT? AiN't tHaT A LiTtLe cOoL FoR ThEm?  
CG: YEAH I THINK THAT'S PART OF HER PROBLEM, SHE REALLY LIKES TO PICK ON HIGHER-BLOODED PEOPLE. ESPECIALLY HIGHER-BLOODED SIGNLESSISTS. I THINK IT GIVES HER SOME KIND OF SICK VALIDATION OR SOMETHING.  
CG: I CAUGHT HER DRIVING A CERULEAN SIX-SWEEPER TO TEARS A COUPLE OF WEEKS AGO, SO OF COURSE I WAS CHEWING HER OUT OVER THAT. AND SHE WAS JUST "BUT SECOND SUFFERER," AND I KIND OF BLEW MY TOP AT HER.  
CG: IT DIDN'T TAKE TOO LONG FOR WORD TO GET AROUND I GUESS.  
TC: AiN't nOThInG WrOnG WiTh lEtTiNg yOuR HeArT TeLl oN WhAt yOu gOtTa dO LiKe aLl tHaT, KaRkAt.  
TC: sPeCiALlY WhEn wHaT It bE TeLlInG Is tO FuCkInG Be tHe bIgGeSt bAdAsS YoU EvEn cAn bE AnD MaKe a bItChTiTs nAmE FoR YoUrSeLf!  
CG: YEAH, I GUESS.  
TC: FuCk gUeSs, i tHiNk yOu gOt a rEaLeR UnDeRsTaNdInG At aLl tHe tRuTh aT HeRe tHaN tHAt, pAlEbRo.  
TC: sToP SeCoNd-GuEsSiNg yOuR FiNe sElF.  
TC: OrDeRs.  
TC: <>  
CG: OK, GOD.  
CG: NO NEED TO COME OVER ALL SERIOUS ON ME.  
CG: <>  
TC: ... i sTiLl gEt tO CaLl YoU KaRkAt tHoUgH, RiGhT?  
CG: WHAT THE FUCK, OF COURSE YOU DO. YOU'RE MY MOIRAIL AND YOU'VE KNOWN ME SINCE WE WERE LIKE FOUR.  
CG: IT'D BE WEIRD IF YOU DIDN'T.  
TC: JuSt cHeCkInG :o) hOnK HoNk hOnK HoNk  
CG: YES, OK, HONK TO YOU TOO.  
CG: DOOFUS.  
TC: yUp ;o)  
CG: DON'T SOUND SO PROUD OF BEING A DOOFUS, IDIOT.  
TC: <><><>  
CG: HOLY NOOKCHAFING FUCK, COULD YOU BE A BIGGER SAP?  
TC: pRoBAbLy! wAnT I ShOuLd tRy?  
CG: THAT'S REALLY OK. YOU GET ANY MORE NEEDLESSLY SACHARINE AND I'M PROBABLY GOING TO SPONTANEOUSLY DEVELOP POST-PUPAL DIABETES OR SOMETHING.  
TC: ThAt'D Be bAd?  
CG: YES, GAMZEE, THAT WOULD BE BAD.  
TC: oK :o(  
TC: I MiSs yOu.  
CG: NOT AS MUCH AS I MISS YOU.  
CG: STAY SAFE, OK? I'M STILL WORKING ON GETTING YOU BACK.  
CG: I WILL BE PISSED OFF BEYOND EVEN MY EXTENSIVE ABILITY TO EXPRESS FRUSTRATION IF YOU GET YOURSELF KILLED BEFORE I CAN RESCUE YOU.  
TC: yEaH Uh mE ToO.  
CG: AND THAT'S "BE MORE CAREFUL" NOT JUST "BE CAREFUL," OK? YOU'VE DONE SOME REALLY PANCRACKED THINGS LATELY.  
CG: YOU'RE LUCKY NOT TO BE DEAD ALREADY.  
TC: I'lL Be oN My bEsT MoThErFuCkInG BeHaViOr, hOnEsT.  
CG: GOOD.  
CG: ANYTHING ELSE YOU DESPERATELY NEED TO TALK ABOUT?  
TC: cAn'T ThInK Of nOtHiNg?  
CG: SURE?  
TC: SuRe i'M SuRe :o)  
TC: yOu wAnNa tAlK At tErEzI?  
CG: IF YOU DON'T MIND HANDING ME OVER, SURE.  
TC: Ok, bRo.  
TC: bE GoOd oN YoUrSeLf, mOtHeRfUcKeR.  
TC: MaKe sUrE YoU'rE SlEePiNg eNoUgH, I kNoW At yOu hAvE TrOuBlE ReMeMBeRiNg tHaT SoMeTiMeS.  
CG: AND YOU THINK BEFORE YOU ACT, I KNOW YOU HAVE TROUBLE WITH THAT ALL THE TIME.  
TC: <>  
CG: <>  
TC: oK I'lL GiVe oVeR To tHe bLiNdSiS nOw i gUeSs.  
CG: SEE YOU, GAMZEE.  
 **\-----** user **terminallyCapricious** logged off

A little reluctantly, Gamzee gets up and looks over to Terezi. "Your go, girl," he says, and she darts over in a movement that isn't so much bouncing as it is ballistic. He chuckles a little as he passes the husktop to her, and adds, as she signs in, "You really wanna make the motherfucker's night, go and call him Unsigned."

"Oh?" she prompts, not turning from the screen.

"Yeah. I'll let him get at an explanation his self," Gamzee replies. As bashful as Karkat had been about the new title, Gamzee figures he'll appreciate the chance to preen a little over it. Karkat's good at preening, especially when Terezi's involved, which has always seemed just a little silly to Gamzee but hey, it's not like it's hurting anything? Karkat convinced that everyone thinks he's the cleverest, most badass guy in the room is far preferable to the alternate extreme.

At least, he hopes Karkat will want to brag to Terezi about it himself. Gamzee figures he will, but hey, this shit is hard from a distance like this.

Gamzee wants to go _home_. He's not entirely sure he remembers what Karkat's voice sounds like, which is kind of a big thing to forget, considering how shouty the guy is. Does he know Tavros's voice anymore, either?

It's probably at least partly the sopor; his memories of the perigees since he had to get off the slime seem much sharper than most of his memories of his wigglerhood on Alternia. (He tries not to think of the other time he'd been off the drug. He doesn't trust those memories, for all that they're sharp enough to cut like a knife.)

As Terezi hunkers down to what Gamzee can only assume to be the premium computer-by-smellovision posture, Gamzee kind of fades off back to his previous perch on the counter, boosting himself up and then pulling his legs up to sit cross-legged. It doesn't really register until he's settled that Equius is now standing a few feet away, head bent over a page of complicated-looking formulas.

Gamzee raises a hand in a vague little wave, and is rewarded with little more than a flicker of a glance behind the dark glasses and a very slight nod.

"So, uh," Gamzee says after a moment, picking at his bootlace, watching Equius from the corner of his eye and thinking that maybe wearing something that obscures where he's looking is a pretty damn clever move, "you and Lazapi?"

Equius makes a little movement of his head that's not quite a nod or a shake, without looking up. "What about us, Highblood?" he asks curtly.

"You're all, being fucking up to being up in the flush, am a brother right?" Gamzee presses.

There's a pause, just short of being unnecessarily long, before Equius looks up, arching a brow over the rim of his shades. "You cannot possibly think that was a legitimate sentence construction."

Gamzee shrugs and grins sheepishly. "Maybe. You think that's to being answering the question?"

Equius very carefully puts down his pen, and pushes a hissing sigh between gritted teeth; a slight sheen of perspiration is visible on his face. " _Yes_ , Makara, Lazapi has asked me to be her matesprit," he replies, "and I have accepted. And I do not see that this cross-examination is necessary."

"Shit, a guy gotta have a reason to wanna know when a couple of his main motherfuckers up and go quadranty with each other?" Gamzee asks, leaning back until the larger of the little magnets that hold papers to the wall start to poke him in the back, and then abruptly sitting up again. "Just curious. I'm happy for you kids, brother, no need to get your ninja-sneak on over it."

As Gamzee grins at him, a very small, cautious smile pulls at the corner of Equius's mouth. "Thank you, then."

They lapse into a slightly more comfortable silence, which is pretty well spoiled when Gamzee speaks up again to ask, "You told her all much 'bout Nepeta?"

Equius glares. "I have _not_ volunteered any pertinent information about my insurgent fugitive of a moirail," he snaps. "A degree of caution which, I am given to understand, you have not thought necessary."

Gamzee picks at his bootlace once again, and glowers. "Don't think I've said nothing actually damaging," he growls. "First couple weeks off sopor were fucking terrible, maybe a motherfucker went and mentioned wanting his palemate once or twice when life sucked up on top of the fucking withdrawals? Ain't no more than that. And I don't think I never mentioned Nepeta."

The blueblood relaxes an infinitesimal degree, though there's still something wary in the way he watches Gamzee, something just a little _too_ controlled about the way he holds his hands at his sides. "Lazapi was asking me about Karkat," he admits, and adds quickly, "I didn't tell her anything. I told her it wasn't my business to tell her anything, and I think she accepted that. But she was curious."

"Don't fucking got none of my blame at her, really," Gamzee mutters. He looks up at Equius. "Thanks, though, bro. I got an appreciation you don't wanna be wrapped up in all this, I do."

Equius turns back to the paper in front of him, a thin, wry smile twisting on his lips. "I'm well aware that my protests of my involvement are more than a little... excessive," he replies. "If I'd truly wished to disassociate myself from the group, I'd have taken the same strategy as Ampora seems to have."

Gamzee snorts a less-than-amused chuckle. "Man, _fuck_ Eridan, huh?"

"Not precisely the language I'd have used, but the sentiment's not far off," Equius agrees. "His behavior is probably the most technically correct out of all of us, but I still can't help finding his total lack of acknowledgment rather distasteful."

When Terezi speaks up, Gamzee's a little glad for the distraction; the teal-blood turns in her chair to face in their general direction and demands, "Hey, either of you got a spare flashgrub or something?"

Gamzee considers the contents of his sylladex and shakes his head. Equius scowls a little as he digs into his sylladex - Gamzee can't make out what his fetch modus is - and emerges with one of the tiny data-storage organisms, which he tosses to Terezi. She snatches it out of the air with a toothy grin. "Thanks, I'll pay you back later."

She plugs it into the husktop, and a moment later is unplugging it again. "Clownboy," she says, and that's all the warning Gamzee gets before the flashgrub is lobbed again, this time to him. He manages to grab it without squishing it or anything, and peers at it curiously.

"That's got a text file on it," Terezi explains, "With a list of every kind of recreational sopor Karkat knows about. He says you've got to memorize it."

Gamzee nods. "Great, moirail-homework," he laughs, captchalouging the grub with a flick of his wrist. Terezi sticks out her tongue at him and turns her attention back to the computer.

Equius seems pretty focused on whatever it is he's working on, and Gamzee has no real desire to rekindle the awkward conversation. He's content enough to let the silence stretch and his mind wander aimlessly, until eventually he realizes that Terezi is closing down the husktop.

"You know," she says as she puts the computer away into a much-scratched captchalogue card, "we always _could_ occasionally hang out without having one of us glued to a husktop screen. You know, as friends are rumored to do."

Gamzee blinks in mild confusion; Equius clears his throat awkwardly but doesn't say anything. Terezi pouts. "Oh, come _on_ guys," she says. "Ok, I know it's a far cry from our old group, but full disclosure? I am so tired of not having anyone I can relax around. The legislacerator academy’s an abattoir of gossip and one-upmanship."

"So what you're up at saying," Gamzee says slowly, "is that you are done with smart motherfuckers and want for hanging with us, instead."

"No," she objects, then pauses a moment before continuing, "yeah, ok, maybe."

Equius huffs a little at that, but Gamzee laughs. "You wanna grab dinner, sister?" he suggests. "I gotta be back for Carnival, but there's all kinds of time 'tween now and then for tracking down some fine eats."

"That would be really great," Terezi replies, and turns a hopeful grin on Equius.

"I, ah, have plans," the blueblood says, shaking his head - and then adds, a little to Gamzee's surprise, "Perhaps another time?"

Incredibly, Terezi's grin grows a bit wider. "I'll hold you to that," she says, then turns and offers Gamzee her arm. "Shall we, my subjugglatative friend?"

"Righto, legal sister," Gamzee returns with a grin of his own, taking her arm.

It's not until much later that morning that he realizes that no one actually said much of anything specific about the state of any rescue mission. He tries not to let it worry him.


	27. That Ain't Really the Sort of Righteous

A few nights later - perhaps a week, if he stops to work it out properly, but he doesn't particularly care to and anyway the understanding sneaks up over the course of several nights - Gamzee comes to realize that Lazapi is avoiding him.

It's hardly anything to notice at first, and so he hardly notices. She's still not exactly chummy with him at the best of times, after all; although there are times when she almost seems to be trying to be, it's not as easy and natural a friendliness as she'd shown in those first few weeks he'd known her, and Gamzee's starting to see that he may just have to admit that it may never be. Anyway, the whole deal with the aftermath of the party had been kind of incredibly awkward from Gamzee's perspective, at least, and he's pretty sure that he's got a greater tolerance for awkwardness than most people. So maybe it's not so odd that Lazapi's a little cooler than usual toward him, if she's not quite making eye contact or saying more than absolutely necessary to him.

It's a little uncomfortable but it's not like he's depending on talking to her for anything or like any of the others share her newly intensified dislike for being in the same place as him. She'll come around eventually, he tells himself, and if she doesn't, well, he's gone the first eight sweeps of his life without Lazapi as a friend. He can probably manage a few more.

Still, it's hard not to heave a frustrated sigh when he comes into the common block and she immediately finds an excuse to leave. He's not really sure why he _shouldn't_ indulge in a sigh, so he does, as he flops down on one of the couches. 

Rossan, sprawled on the other end of the couch, looks up from the PDA he's fiddling with, looking at Gamzee and then craning his neck to see Lazapi's retreating back. He chuckles.

"Hey. Gamzee, freeadvice?" he says. "She's crazy."

"That ain't advice," Gamzee points out.

"Is when you're somekinda hung up onher," Rossan replies lightly, apparently turning his attention back to the device in his hands. "I thoughtmaybe you hadn'tnoticed."

Gamzee's response is equal parts laugh and growl, and comes out sounding more like a snort. "Right, 'cause any motherfucker 'round here's up at right in the pan."

Rossan shrugs. "I dunno, dude, Sephar seems prettystable," he says, smirking as he casts a glance at Gamzee, who rolls his eyes.

" _That's_ at making a point for you, motherfucker," he half-growls. "And here I'd thought maybe yourself was at one of the saner ones of us."

"Me? _Naw,_ " Rossan responds easily. "But hey, atleast I'm a predictablesortof crazy, huh?"

Gamzee studies him for a long moment before replying with a terse, "Yeah, sure."

His attitude doesn't seem to bother Rossan, who just beams at him. "It'swhy you guys loveme."

"No one loves your ass, Rossan."

"Keep tellingyourselfthat."

 

Maybe, he reflects the next day as he finds himself grabbing lunch on his own, it's just that in the absence of that rapport he'd had with Lazapi in the first few weeks, Rossan is probably the closest thing he has to a friend among his classmates. He's getting better at tolerating Sephar, he thinks, and he's certainly glad to have Arsast around, but what they have isn't nearly so casual as friendship, and he's always found Lydain and Staiko a little less than approachable. This, in itself, is something of a sobering thought - not that he actually _dislikes_ Rossan, once he's gotten the hang of figuring out which half of the other boy's conversation it's safe to tune out, and not that he's exactly ever had any expectation of having a lot of friends around, but...

But, well, he really ought to keep putting out a better effort to connect with his non-subjugglator friends more often if the alternative is a social life that consists mostly of Rossan.

He heads out after lunch, going back for the second half of the night's classes and not really looking forward to having to sit still and concentrate for an extended period of time despite having spent the evening in combat practice that ought to have been intense enough to burn off any amount of nervous energy. He's hardly left the mess hall when he hears heavy footsteps behind him; turning, he sees Equius hurrying to catch up with him in the sparsely populated corridor. Gamzee's not sure he's ever seen Equius in a state that could strictly be called relaxed, but even considering that, the blueblood looks... worried. Furtive, maybe.

Furtive is not, Gamzee reflects, a particularly good look on guy of Equius's stature.

Still, Gamzee pauses to let him catch up, making no attempt to hide his slightly bewildered surprise. "S'up, motherfucker?"

Equius responds with a gesture that involves rather more movement of his shoulders and upper torso than could reasonably be called a nod - a shallow and abbreviated bow, but a bow nonetheless. "There's something we need to discuss."

Gamzee frowns. "What, now?" he asks, a slight whine to his voice that's more concern than annoyance. "Bro, I gotta get my ass off to places, not that I ain't got a desire to stop and chat, but..."

A little to Gamzee's surprise, Equius shakes his head, hard enough that it sends a few strands of hair flipping over his shoulder. "No. No, a little later would be acceptable," he says. "Better, maybe. Freeshift? Could you... do you remember where my studio was?"

"...Yeah?" There is pretty much nothing about this that isn't confusing the fuck out of Gamzee, and he's making no effort to pretend like that isn't the case. "Look, motherfucker, is something wrong?"

Equius seems to consider this for a moment, and shakes his head. "I don't think so, no."

Gamzee gives him one last bewildered look, and then hurries off.

The encounter has put him badly out of sorts, and he knows he's fidgeting through his classes, tripping over his Quarrelkenning composition, and rapping's never been something he's had any problem with. Even stoned out of his mind, he could spin rhymes and rhythms without much effort. At least, that's how he remembers it, though he can't say he remembers any specific lyrics now. With his wits about him, he's come to realize that he's decent if not precisely polished; he can hold his own against pretty much anyone in the group except maybe Lydain, and on one notable occasion last perigee Lazapi swore off spoken language after rapping against Lydain. She'd insisted on it for nearly two hours.

Anyway, he's not sure what effect being off his head on sopor would have had on his previous efforts, but even if they hadn't been much good, they'd come easy. 

Finally, _finally_ , the schoolfeeding courses finish for the night, and the young indigos scatter to whatever it is each of them chooses to do with their free time. Gamzee heads off toward the little mechanical workshop he's visited only once, and manages to only get terribly turned around in the corridors a couple of times on the way - at this rate, before long he might even be able to remember how to get there on the first try. As it is, he hopes the poor navigation hasn't cost him too dearly in terms of time. Equius's earlier infectious agitation has not become any less unnerving in the last few hours.

Gamzee steels himself, although he's not sure against what, and lifts a hand to knock on the door. There's a pause that's just a bit longer than seems absolutely normal, but before Gamzee can really start spinning new ideas of what new hell could possibly have gone wrong, the door opens.

It's not Equius who answers the door.

Lazapi looks up at Gamzee, her expression quickly shifting from annoyance to alarm.

"Oh, hell no," she says, and shuts the door in his face.

Gamzee blinks at the suddenly closed door, and sighs. He wonders if he ought to knock again. Equius had seemed fairly insistent that he come; he doesn't think that Lazapi being a pain in the ass probably negates that. 

He still isn't sure what this is about, and at the moment he kind of wishes that _someone_ in his immediate social circle had enough social savvy that it would be possible to tell the difference between "something's actually wrong" and "everyone is being an awkward fuck, as usual."

Before he's come to any conclusion on the trying again front, the door opens without any further action from him. It's Equius this time, and he wordlessly ushers Gamzee inside. 

As he had earlier in the night, the blueblood seems on edge, nervous but not actually upset. Lazapi looks pissed-off and confused. "Why the fuck is he here?" she demands. 

Equius crosses his arms. "I really think it's best that Makara knows..."

"Oh no," she snaps, cutting him off, and if she'd looked alarmed before, she's angry and... scared, now? "No, Equius, we are not telling him. _No_."

"Lazapi, I am one hundred percent certain in identifying him as an ally," is the reply, measured and even. "It would behoof us if he knew."

"Ooooo," Lazapi growls between clenched teeth, "do _not_ think you are going to distract me by punning, mister." She steps closer to him, dropping her voice and muttering fiercely so that Gamzee has to strain to hear as she continues, "He's the _Grand Highblood's scion_ , Equius, if we tell him we'll have to cull him and we can't _afford_ to waste him, the Gee-Aich actually _likes_ him!"

Gamzee clears his throat. "Uh. Some motherfucker want to be filling a bro in on what the fucking hell is going at?"

Lazapi turns a withering look on him. " _No_ , Gamzee, that's the _point_."

"Please, trust me, you _want_ him to know," Equius insists.

"You know, I'm pretty sure I don't!" she retorts. "As might be evidenced by the fact that I don't want to tell him, and also I don't want him to be told!"

Great. Equius _was_ always a little too straightforward to be really good at conspiracy, and it seems he hasn't grown out of that. Lazapi is quickly approaching hysterical. And the fact that Gamzee has spent most of his eight sweeps out of the loop in regards to something or other important does not in any way make him any happier about being excluded now.

"Someone," he snarls, just a hint of chucklevoodoo behind his words, making Equius wince a little and Lazapi give him a glare that could peel paint, "tell me _what_ is going on up in here!"

"Lazapi," Equius says quickly, whether to answer before Gamzee gets more annoyed or before Lazapi can stop him, "is an adherent of the Cult of the Signless Sufferer."

Gamzee looks at Equius, flabbergasted. He shrugs. Gamzee looks at Lazapi, flabbergasted. Her hand is moving, unsurely, toward a better grip on the pen in her hand, which does not look like one of her weaponized ones.

Gamzee realizes that maybe this is not the best time to be building a new appreciation of the word _flabbergasted_ , tries to figure out what he is possibly supposed to say at this juncture, and almost entirely without meaning to, dissolves into laughter. He's not even sure why – it's not funny, so much as... cathartic, almost.

“What?” Lazapi demands. There's an edge of panic in her voice and even more of an edge of anger.

Gamzee holds up a hand, shaking his head as he tries to catch his breath. There's a slight current the bases of his horns, and a hard, sick twist of nervousness and guilt in his gut, and fuck if Lazapi's voodoos don't feel stronger when there's more than a bit of natural fear that they've fucked this up for her to build on – no. He tries to ignore that line of thought. This is _good_ news, or will be once Gamzee manages to regain his ability to communicate in a halfway coherent manner.

“Highblood, please,” Equius sighs.

Finally, and with some effort, Gamzee manages to bring himself a bit more under control. “You didn't tell her nothing about _why_ I should get told at?” he asks, and when the blueblood gives a noncommittal shrug, her rolls his eyes. “Shiiiiiiit, I don't half blame on her for getting her fright on, that ain't an understanding anyone could expect to mean nothing good!”

“But – you're _circus_ ,” Lazapi objects, sounding almost more annoyed than frightened now, as if Gamzee's esoteric belief system of choice was selected to spite her, or something.

“Sure,” he replies. “And you'd be all... Signlessist? Ain't no Suffererists gonna put up with someone our color playing cozy with 'em.”

She watches him carefully, her gaze flicking to Equius from time to time but mostly settling back on Gamzee. “Yeah...? How the _fuck_ do you know any of that, you're a _clown_!”

“That palemate you like to be getting all up my case about? He ain't,” he replies. 

Lazapi stares at him. “Your _moirail_ is Signlessist,” she says, flatly, disbelievingly.

“See, well... not precisely like,” Gamzee says. If she's finding the idea of him being in a quadrant with a cultist so hard to believe, he's not sure how to set her straight.

Equius doesn't seem to have the same misgivings; he half-laughs, half-sighs and clarifies, “Makara's moirail is the out-caste mutant known as the Second Signless.”

“Unsigned,” Gamzee corrects, a little peevishly. “Motherfucker likes 'Unsigned' better.”

“Which means nothing to anyone not already familiar with Vantas and his insurrection,” Equius replies mildly.

“More reason to all be getting it right, then,” Gamzee insists. “Good habits, aight? Rest of us don't go round fucking with everyone else's names.”

“You,” Equius says curtly, “consistently misspelled my name for a period of approximately six perigees when we were five.”

“Brother, you oughta be glad I could fucking find the keyboard then, and I got my suspicion on what you know that,” is Gamzee's excuse. “Don't get to changing the subject.”

Lazapi frowns. “This isn't funny, guys,” she says, her voice a little unsteady. The buzz of her 'voodoos is back in Gamzee's mind, and from the way Equius is shifting uneasily, Gamzee's pretty sure that he feels it too. “For fuck's sake, don't _toy_ with me, it isn't funny.”

Gamzee sighs. “Only funny so far as there's one fuck of a joke over all us,” he agrees. “Ain't me what's playing it, though, honest.”

For a moment, Lazapi looks a bit like a landed fish. Finally, she roughly straightens her glasses, and repeats, “But you're a juggalo!”

“You be more inclined to believe at us if I wasn't in paint?” Gamzee asks. “Chica, it ain't in me what there's all that fucking miracle going in. Karkat's your prophet's descendent, don't matter what _I_ am. I'm just the fucker what went pale for him.”

Before Lazapi can start in on another round of what he figures is probably going to be rehashing the same objections again, Gamzee glances over to Equius. “And how'd you get at finding all out about this shit, huh?”

A little to Gamzee's surprise, Lazapi laughs, hard and sharp and a little disgusted. “Besides me being an idiot, you mean?”

“Careless, maybe” Equius allows, his words a little distracted as he dips into his sylladex and pulls out a folded piece of paper, which he hands to Gamzee. “I wouldn't say idiotic. I don't think I would have made the connection without both knowing you well and having some passing knowledge of the cult and of, ah, the Unsigned.”

Gamzee unfolds the paper and at first isn't sure what he's supposed to be seeing; it's a sheet of unlined paper, ragged along one edge where it's been torn from a notebook, and covered in what seem to be multicolored, geometric and abstract doodles. He's caught glimpses of similar in the past – it's not uncommon for Lazapi to absently produce these kinds of drawings while she's paying attention to something else. It doesn't look particularly out of the ordinary to him.

Well, at least it doesn't until Equius reaches over and points out a few places on the paper where a particular motif is repeated. A familiar motif, circles and curving lines.

Gamzee narrows his eyes critically. “Yeah, bro, I am all with Lazapi on this. This is some stupid shit. Sister, what the fuck are you motherfucking drawing the irons for?”

She crosses her arms, the movement sharp and angry. “I don't know, it was kind of meditative I guess. I was going to destroy that thing,” she snaps defensively, “but Equius found it and took it and won't give it back.”

“I'd have thought I was imagining it if you hadn't reacted so dramatically when you saw me looking,” Equius points out.

“I wouldn't have freaked out if you hadn't _taken it and refused to give it back_!” Lazapi retorts.

Gamzee takes a last long look at the paper, then folds it in half again and kind of half holds it out, not exactly offering it _to_ either of them. “Man, why in mirth's name would either of all you want to keep hold of this?” he asks. “That's all at being a real quick way to get culled messy, if the wrong people get a look on it.”

“I _know_ that, Gamzee, I'm not _that_ stupid,” Lazapi snaps, snatching the paper from his hand. She tears the sheet in half, and then in half again, and again, until the motion seems more nervous than destructive. “I already said I wasn't going to keep it. You using circus slang does not make this any less weird, by the way.”

Equius fidgets a little. “I thought it might be necessary evidence. For convincing you.”

Gamzee fixes him with a doubtful look; even from behind dark glasses, Equius can't or won't meet the clown's gaze for long. “Bro? I am like lots percent sure that most all the time just telling a motherfucker is enough, you ain't gotta lay up not pieces of evidence. This isn't no courtblock. And why,” he adds, when Equius's only reaction is a kind of noncommittal shrug, “didn't you fill Laz in none better before you got me involved? Your palemate's in this all near as deep as mine, you got as much right to talk as me.”

Equius shrugs again, but before he can really answer – if whatever he would have come up with would have been an actual answer, which Gamzee's not sure he believes – Lazapi pipes up. “Wait, you have a moirail?” she asks. “Where _are_ all these people you guys have stashed away?”

“Alternia, as last we'd heard,” Equius says. “Nepeta's a close friend of _his_ moirail. They struck out with a few of our other aquaintances at conscription and have... amassed something of an impressive gathering of deserters and near adults encamped somewhere in the southeastern costal badlands, with some limited spacegoing capability. Less communication capability than we might like, though.”

It's a little impressive how he can sound proud and utterly disapproving at the same time, Gamzee reflects.

There's a guarded look on Lazapi's face. “Do you who else might be with them?” she asks. “Any idea?”

“Uh, well,” Gamzee says, “can't think you'd know them, but they got Tavros – he's at being my matesprit – and Sollux...”

“Feferi Peixes, as well,” Equius adds. “I believe Nepeta has mentioned someone named Natiko? I don't know the names of many outside our immediate circle.”

Gamzee nods, grimacing a little in agreement. “Karkat was all saying he was getting trouble from at a Chanry,” he says, and Lazapi seems to perk up a little.

“Chanry Deimos?” she demands.

“Yeah, that's the name,” he confirms. “Teal motherfucker. You know her?”

She sighs, pushing her glasses up her forehead to pinch the bridge of her nose, but she's also sporting a lopsided grin. “You could say that. Lemme guess, she's been raising a stink over recruiting highbloods or something like that?”

Gamzee blinks. “Shit, yeah, girl was all harassing some cerulean kid.”

“Of course she was. Asshole.” Lazapi sounds almost fond. “Chanry's my kismesis. Or she was. I dunno, she wasn't exactly tactful about what she thought my chances were in the fleet, she's probably given me up for dead by now.”

“I'm sorry to hear - “ Equius starts, but Lazapi shakes her head.

“Honestly, I'd thought she'd probably gotten eaten by wildlife or caught by a drone patrol or something, to be fair,” she points out. “I mean, I'm glad she hasn't!”

Lazapi hesitates a little then asks – and Gamzee can't help notice the question is directed a lot more at Equius than at him – “Do you think I might be able to talk to her?”

Maybe the question was to Equius, but Equius glances at Gamzee as if for input. 

“Dunno why not,” Gamzee says. “We might wanna check in at Terezi? But if I'm all vouching for Lazsister, and you're vouching for her, I can't get no idea on how all Terezi's gonna object all that much?”

“You _will_ vouch for her?” Equius asks.

Gamzee shrugs. “Yeah?” he agrees, unsure whether the note of uncertainty in Equius's voice or the slight skepticism in Lazapi's expression is more bothersome. “I mean, I guess I've all given a sister reason she ain't got to trust me sometimes, but she never done anything at what I don't trust.”

Lazapi seems abruptly to notice Gamzee watching her; she looks away quickly, the tips of her ears going lilac-tinted. “Sure,” she mutters. “Thanks.”

Equius nods, seeming satisfied by this reassurance. “If you speak to Pyrope before I do, arrange to talk to her in person?” he says, with just that little twist of shift in his inflection at the last minute that rather belatedly changes it from “order” to “suggestion.” “I don't know how closely monitored the network is, but it's probably best to keep this out of the instant messaging system. Especially considering that your quirk has always been more... expressive than secure.”

“Yeah, all like yours is so hard to catch words at...” Gamzee begins, and then a sudden thought chokes that line of banter. “There isn't no chance this place be bugged any, right?”

To his surprise, Lazapi laughs, a sudden, sharp sound that seems to startle even her. “Yeah that's... really not going to be a problem,” she says, her arms still wrapped defensively around herself.

“No?” Gamzee asks.

“Equius is always really careful to check for bugs in here,” she says, sounding a little amused – despite herself, Gamzee can't help thinking. 

Equius makes a small noise of embarrassed acknowledgment. “I'm certain there was never any official surveillance on this block,” he says. “Which admittedly leaves the possibility that one of the other students who use this space could have installed something, but while I wouldn't put it past Urukku, I really don't believe him capable of hiding a transmitter I couldn't find.”

“And you're not keen on him knowing what's going on when he's not here, even when no one's dabbling in sedition,” Lazapi adds, in response to which Equius goes quite blue in the face and more than a little damp about the brow.

Gamzee chuckles. “Aight, aight, I don't gotta know what all you motherfuckers get up at on which surfaces,” he says.

Equius buries his face in one hand, and then scrabbles to catch the pieces of the shades which have just snapped in half at the bridge. “Is this really necessary?”

“Let's see,” Lazapi says, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, I think so, you just scared me half to death with the whole 'let's tell Gamzee without giving anyone involved any warning' stunt, I think you can handle a little embarrassment.”

Equius glares at the two pieces of his broken glasses for a moment before captchalouging them. “I apologize,” he grates. “It was poor judgment on my part. I didn't mean to distress you.”

Lazapi shoots him a smile that's just slightly sheepish.

As the moment threatens to stretch into something awkward, Gamzee clears his throat. “I figure I might be clearing off now?” he suggests. “Unless there's to being anything else we gotta be jawing over?”

“Just a moment, Gamzee, wait.”

“Yeah, sister?” He regards her, his manner quite a bit more placid than he actually feels.

“What's he like?” she asks. “The – your – the Unsigned?”

Gamzee pauses to think, leaning back against a counter and letting his gaze drift to the panels of the ceiling. “Little motherfucker. Shouty,” he finally says, fondly. “Takes it way too fucking personal when he all can't always save everyone. Little bit pale for just all the universe at large, I think, and I got no idea how the fuck it been that no one else landed his diamond before I got my shit together – miracles, I guess. Motherfucking serendipity, how does it even work?”

Lazapi stifles a giggle behind her hand, and Gamzee grins at her before continuing, “I don't right know what all makes a troll holy 'asides righteous whimsey and that ain't really the sort of righteous Karkat be at in him, but a religion could really be doing lots fucking worse than him, though. A rebellion, too. Motherfucker does straight-up serious mean it when he says he's gonna make shit better. Could really be even that he's going to fucking manage it.”

“You miss him?” Lazapi asks, and then appends, “Don't you.”

Gamzee shrugs. “Couldn't not. He's easy to miss.”

After a moment, he moves again to go, and this time no one goes to stop him. He catches Equius's eye – “I'll talk at our lawsister,” he promises – and then unlatches the door and slips out into the hallway, once again acutely aware of the little ache of loneliness lodged in his chest. He's heard it said, in that culturally pervasive way that makes it hard to pin down exactly _where_ he might have heard it, that the bloodpusher is the heart and the sternum the diamond, and for the moment, he has no problem whatsoever accepting it.

By some stroke of luck, when Gamzee gets back to the novitiates' chambers he finds that Sephar is off doing whatever it is she does when she's not hanging around monopolizing the computer in their respiteblock. On the other hand, Terezi doesn't seem to be online at the moment, either, but he spends a few minutes hunting out how to send a message to an inactive account.

He's actually managed to make some progress on a project for his history class and is starting to wonder if he ought to go find dinner and try and talk to Terezi later, when a chat window pops up.

___ **gallowsCallibrator** has contacted **terminallyCapricious** ___  
GC: WH4TS TH1S  
GC: G4MZ33 M4K4R4 B31NG PRO4CT1V3 4BOUT K33P1NG 1N TOUCH?  
GC: DO 1 N33D TO ST4RT SUSP3CT1NG 4N 1MPOST3R 4G41N?  
TC: WhAt nO SiStEr  
TC: sHiT I Am nOt aT BeInG AlL ThAt bAd aBoUt sHiT :o(  
GC: SUR3 YOU 4R3  
GC: BUT 1 4M PR3P4R3D TO 3XT3ND TO YOU TH3 B3N3F1T OF TH3 DOUBT  
TC: BiG Of yOu  
GC: DONT M3NT1ON 1T  
TC: wAsN't gEtTiNg nO PlAn oN MeNtIoNiNg nOtHiNg, cHiCa  
GC: >:P  
TC: AnYhOw bUt i gOtTa bE AsKiNg yOu dOiNg aNyThInG ThIs mOrNiNg  
TC: wE NeEd aT Be gEtTiNg oUr tAlK On  
GC: 1S SOM3TH1NG WRONG >:?  
TC: NaW SiStEr nOtHiNg lIkE ThAt  
TC: eQuIbRo tAlKeD At yOu aNy yEt tOnIgHt?  
GC: NOP3  
GC: TH1S 1S TH3 F1RST 1V3 H34RD FROM 31TH3R OF YOU 4LL D4Y  
GC: 4ND 1 4M ST4RT1NG TO SUSP3CT TH4T 1 4M OUT OF TH3 LOOP!  
TC: HaHa nO WoRrIeS SiS   
TC: i aM JuSt bArElY GoT InTo tHe lOoP On tHiS My oWnSeLf  
TC: So i'M WaNtInG At gEtTiNg yOu uP To sPeEd oN SoMeThINg?  
TC: bUt wE ShOuLd tAlK FaCe tO FuCkInG FaCe tHoUgH  
GC: R1GHT B3C4US3 TH1S 1SNT W31RD 4T 4LL  
GC: TH1S SOM3TH1NG P3RSON4L?  
TC: GuEsS YoU CoUlD SaY ThAt  
TC: sHiT I Am nOt aLl tHaT FuCkInG GoOd aT ThIs hUh  
TC: JuSt wHeRe aRe yOu aT, ChIcA, YoU fReE ThIs mOrNiNg?  
GC: M33T M3 OV3R H3R3 4ND W3LL GO GR4B SOM3 D1NN3R  
TC: iT'S KiNdA AlL A PeRsOnAL ThInG I WaNt tO TaLk oN, TeReZi  
GC: Y34H 1 G3T TH4T  
GC: TRUST M3 MR GR4P3 J3LLY  
GC: 1 KNOW WH4T 1'M DO1NG  
TC: YoU MoThErFuCkInG BeTtEr, sIs  
GC: H4V3 1 3V3R L3T YOU DOWN?  
GC: 1M WOUND3D BY YOUR M1STRUST  
GC: >:[  
TC: sOrRy!  
TC: I'Ll HeAd oUt yOuR MoThErFuCkInG WaY ThEn  
TC: sEe yA In a fEw  
GC: 1LL B3 W41T1NG

___ **gallowsCalibrator** has cut contact with **terminallyCapricious** ___

When he gets to the Legislacerator Academy, Gamzee's a little surprised to find Terezi actually waiting in the corridor outside, standing by the wall with her arms akimbo and both thumbs hooked nonchalantly into the belt that seems to be part of the student legislacerator uniform. She seems lost in thought, although she perks up at his approach, lifting her head to “look” in his direction in a way that's almost disconcerting when considered with the knowledge that she can't see a thing.

“Hey, my sister,” he greets her. 

“That was quick,” she comments, darting forward to take his arm in an almost proprietary way and already steering him off toward the mess hall. “C'mon, I'm starving.”

“Fuck, sure,” he agrees, a little bemused. “Everything ok with you, sister?”

“Besides my friends coming over all fuck-off mysterious?” she replies. “Eh. More or less.”

“What's that at meaning?” he asks, just short of demanding.

Terezi sighs. “One of my classmates pretty much figured out for sure that I'm blind,” she replies. “Despite me doing my best to keep it ambiguous?”

“You never all made no effort to keep it a motherfucking secret back planetside?” Gamzee points out.

“Everyone who knew me _knew_ when we were planetside,” Terezi replies. “If I didn't freak out at them in the immediate aftermath, they pretty much were guaranteed to hear it from someone I did – or Vriska was gloating to them when she was in a mood, most of the FLARP circuit found out from her. I figured out here was as good an opportunity as any to get myself established as just eccentric rather than crippled.”

Gamzee nods, slowly. “And now?”

“Well, the good news is I'm pretty sure this guy's not going to make any trouble over it,” Terezi says. “The bad news is that I'm pretty sure it's because he's gone pale on me.”

“And you don't feel it at in you to follow up on that?” Gamzee asks, half-teasing. 

Terezi barks a sharp laugh. “Oh, hell no,” she says. “He's an asshole with a little too much aptitude for figuring shit out, I'm not about to collapse on him and jam out my innermost secrets.”

They come to an intersection, and Terezi nudges him in the ribs, nods toward one of the branching corridors. Gamzee looks down at her in mild confusion, and she practically drags him off course, down the smaller hallway.

“Sis, I don't fucking think this is the way,” he mutters.

“Sure it is,” she retorts. “Just a bit of a detour. I know what I'm doing, Gamzee.”

Gamzee shrugs, and a little reluctantly lets her lead him off.

After a few long moments and a couple of abrupt corners, they've left behind the intermittant traffic of the main corridor. Terezi cocks her head to one side for a moment – listening, perhaps – then gives a very slight nod. “Ok, what was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Here?” Gamzee asks.

“Yeah,” she replies, her voice low but not precisely conspiratory. “ _Don't look around for cameras,_ but the surveillance in the corridors is video only – no sound. As long as no one's around to hear us and we don't look suspicious it's safe to talk.”

“Huh. You sure?” he asks.

“Yeah I'm sure,” she snaps. “Who's the one getting schoolfeeds on actual investigative technique, here?”

Gamzee laughs, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Aight, aight.” He pauses, trying to figure out where to start. “Right so you know who Lazapi is? One'a the other Subjugglator kids, she an' Equius are flushed on each other?”

Terezi shrugs. “I kind of know who she is, I don't know her personally,” she replies. “What, is she going to be a problem?”

“Fuck, don't think so,” Gamzee says. “She's... well, she's at being down with knowing all about what at Karkat's ancestor was?”

Terezi quirks an eyebrow over the rim of her glasses at him. “She's ...?”

“...Signlessist,” Gamzee prompts.

“I _thought_ that's what you were getting at.”

“Yeah.”

There's a moment of slightly awkward silence before Gamzee continues, “So anyway me and him got some explanation at her all on rebellion shit.”

“Of _course_ you did,” Terezi sighs.

“You think we better shouldn't have, then?” Gamzee asks, a little more sharply than he might have intended to.

Terezi shrugs. “Meowbeast's out of the bag now, I guess,” she replies. “Honestly, with Equius dating someone upspectrum, I'm a little surprised he waited this long to start spilling sensitive information.”

“Sister, I am like really fucking sure on that that girl's trustworthy,” Gamzee adds. “She's had my back when all she got no reason to, and she got stakes in this shit, too.”

“Oh?” Terezi asks.

“Turns out one of the fuckers giving our main motherfucker trouble is at being Lazapi's kismesis,” he explains. He hesitates a little before adding, “She'd like to get in on the miracle chats.”

“You told her about that, too,” Terezi says, not quite making it a question. “You guys are _really bad_ at conspiracy, you know that?”

“What, you don't want more motherfuckers we can all get our trust on?” Gamzee asks.

“Bluh,” Terezi sighs, rolling her head on her neck. “It's not that, Gamzee. I'm just... not sure this was the best way to go about it.”

“But is there a right way to do at any of this shit, though?” he asks. “Didn't realize there was a fucking how-too book I should've been getting my examination on.”

Terezi frowns. “If she already knows about it, you guys might as well bring her along next time the guys contact us,” she finally says. “I have a feeling Nepeta's going to want to interrogate her a little, anyway.”

Gamzee chuckles, stretching his arms over his head. “Haha, yeah,” he agrees. “We cool, then?”

“I think so,” she agrees.

“Aight, so, one more question,” he adds. Terezi raises an eyebrow at him, and he continues, “You got any idea where the fuck this is what we've wandered off at?”

Terezi cackles. “It really is just a detour, Gamzee,” she assures him. “A little further and we should be meeting up with the main corridor again.”

“Good. Wasn't just an excuse to get you out, me saying at I was hungry.”


	28. Purrbeastie, Purrbeastie, Where Gone You Hence?

Gamzee begins to wonder whether his ancestor has lost interest in him. As time goes by, the older Capricorn seems to seek him out less, to single him out less. Fewer summons are issued in the evenings than in previous weeks. It seems to Gamzee that he has fewer encounters with the Grand Highblood at morning Carnival than he once did.

He's not sure whether or not this is a good thing. To what extent, at this point, does he actually rely on the Highblood's good will? On a good evening, he can at least hold his own sparring against any in the group, and he knows that in a corner he can do a good bit better than hold his own; his academic scores are better in some areas than others but nowhere are they unacceptably poor. And, save for those few isolated incidents beyond his control, he's been clean for - well, he's lost track, he guesses, between frequent bouts of intense apathy toward the concept of the passage of time, and not being entirely sure how the standardized calendar of the fleet matches up, exactly, to the complex cycle of sun and moons and seasons on Alternia, but it's something on the order of a quarter of a sweep.

The cravings never really go away - he's not even really all that certain that they're any less intense than they were at first - and he remembers only too well what the official line on a troll's chances of recovery from sopor addiction are. No such thing, just psychosis and relapses waiting to happen. Still, if the unfulfilled need for sopor is unabated, at least it's grown to be familiar by now. He really thinks that if he _does_ fuck up at this point, it won't be about sopor.

Of course, that doesn't mean he wants to think about all the other myriad of things he could fuck up about, or that anyone who hasn't given him the benefit of the doubt from day one would be inclined to start now.

Hell, he's not even sure why his ancestor gave him that kind of trust in the first place. _He_ wouldn't have given himself the benefit of the doubt.

Anyway, if he's about to have a reversal of fortunes, he doesn't know that there's anything he can do about it, so Gamzee does what he often does when faced with something out of his control: he does his best to put it out of his mind. 

And really, it's not so very long after he comes to this conclusion that he discovers two things: firstly, that he was _pretty damn wrong_ about the whole "his ancestor getting bored with him" thing, and secondly, that he might actually have preferred to be right.

It's just after Carnival. Gamzee lingers near the chapel exit, waiting to see if he can find some of his classmates to walk back with - it's not as if he thinks it's actually unsafe to walk on his own, and he's done it plenty of times, but somehow it's still more comfortable to go with a group. He feels less out of place that way. 

This morning, though, it's not Arsast or either of the other young clowns who he catches up with. In fact, he's starting to think that maybe his timing just sucks today and he's missed them entirely - it wouldn't be the first time that everyone else managed to go before he even started looking for them - when a light touch at his back practically makes him jump out of his skin. He yelps, turning quickly in place, and finds his ancestor there, apparently having approached a good deal more quietly than really ought to be possible for a man of his size, and looking kind of vaguely amused.

And really, considering the range of possible attitudes the Grand Highblood could show, Gamzee figures that "kind of vaguely amused" is probably one of the better options. He's kind of glad that he hadn't had the presence of mind to draw a weapon in his moment of surprise.

"Come by the adminisblock before you turn in this morning, kid," the Grand Highblood instructs. His tone is terse, but not upset - preoccupied, maybe. "We gotta talk."

Halfway back from Carnival, Gamzee hears a shout and quick footsteps from somewhere behind him and turns, quickly, still a little tense from the encounter with the Highblood. Lydain is ducking through the light foot traffic of the corridor, hurrying to catch up. He pauses, obligingly, to wait for her. 

“What gives? You never take off on your own,” she demands, a little out of breath. Then, taking a better look at him, “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Gamzee rolls his eyes, and tries to release a bit of the tension that's apparently readily obvious from his stance. “What's the mother fucking need any brother's got for all ghosts when he's at having an ancestor running around?” he asks. “Shit, sister, I knew a girl what spoke at spirits back planetside and they never gave her half so much harsh.”

Lydain raises one delicately painted-on eyebrow. “You know, a lot of people would cull a _lot_ of people to get his attention like you've got,” she points out.

“Yeah? Well motherfucking good for them,” he growls.

She rolls her eyes, and falls into step beside him; with his longer stride, Gamzee could probably make that difficult for her if he wanted to, but he finds he doesn't really care that much. “You got any clue on who your ancestor's to being?” he asks, after a moment.

“Eh.” She picks at a cuticle. “I don't know if she's quite that close, but there's an older woman with my sign I found records of a while back, she's old as fuck and she's got a cushy low-profile gig on one of the colonies. Governor Bladebit.”

“Yeah? You all contacted her any?”

She makes a small disbelieving noise. “For all I know she'd take the imperial example on that sort of thing and go all Troll Highlander on me,” she says. “Especially since she's not circus.”

“Oh.” There doesn't really seem to be much else that needs to be said to that.

Lydain stretches as she walks, fingers laced together at arm's length over her head., and neatly sidesteps a troll – Gamzee doesn't get a good look, but he thinks it might have been a tealblood – who passes them going the other direction.“You really don't know how lucky you are with this stuff, Gamzee.”

Gamzee rolls his eyes. “Glad you got your comprehension on all it, then,” he replies. “Some motherfucker ought to, I guess.”

“Now you're just trying to be disagreeable,” she accuses.

He shrugs. Lydain laughs, and slugs him lightly in the arm, eliciting a surprised noise not entirely unlike a honk. She laughs, again, and takes off running ahead of him, sliding to a stop after a few strides to look back and see if he's following.

And, well, fuck, it's not like Gamzee's got some great trove of dignity he's got to guard, or like brooding the whole way back is going to make the impending encounter any easier. There's something oddly satisfying about the way that the corridor's general populace scrambles just a little to get out of the way of a pair of rambunctious young clowns. Lydain's not as fast as he is, but she's deceptively agile.

By the time they make it to their own little corner of the ship, Lydain is badly out of breath and Gamzee's shoulder smarts a little from careening into a wall by trying to take a corner too fast. He's not managed to put his ancestor entirely out of his mind, but that's probably for the best, really. After all, it would seem to be time to face the music, whatever tune that turns out to be. He gives a kind of half-hearted wave to the clump of his classmates gathered in the common block, and takes the exit leading toward the Grand Highblood's headquarters.

His first knock on the door of his ancestor's adminisblock goes unanswered.

So does the second. And, a moment later, the third.

That's about the point that he decides that if the Grand Highblood isn't responding it's probably not worth his skin to press further, and he settles in leaning against the wall next to the door, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

He's there for a few minutes, enough to start to have some serious doubts – he can't put his finger on what he might have done to fuck this up, but surely there's _something_. Or shit, maybe he's just worrying too much about nothing, but the “worrying too much about nothing” option seems a lot less likely these days than it has in the past.

He's almost made up his mind that he ought to knock again and risk aggravating the Highblood, when the adult in question comes wandering down the corridor. Gamzee scrambles to straighten up as his ancestor approaches.

The Grand Highblood regards him for a moment as if not entirely sure what to make of finding Gamzee waiting for him, and then makes a small disgruntled kind of growl and practically slams the door open on his way into the adminisblock. Gamzee follows, till a little jumpy, still not sure what to expect. The door closes behind him; he starts a little at the noise and then grins sheepishly as he turns back to his Ancestor.

The older troll rolls his eyes. It might be more accurate to say he rolls his head; the tips of his horns trace a short but distinct arc in the air with the gesture.

“Well, _that's_ fucking encouraging.”

Gamzee blinks. “Sir?”

A little surprisingly, the Grand Highblood sighs, folds his arms; Gamzee almost thinks he looks discomfited. “Look, kid, last fucking thing I want to do right now is take you out in public again,” he says. “Given the choice, I mean. You ain't exactly presentable, let's be real, but...”

The pause stretches into an awkward silence, as Gamzee tries to work out what exactly the Highblood is getting at. He can't seem to get his mind around it, though, and eventually hazards prompting him. “But what, though?”

“But we are coming in near transit range of the Battleship Condescension within a few days, and not only have I got orders to drop everything and report in person, her imperial unreasonableness wants me to drag you along, too.”

“What?” It comes out louder and sharper and more alarmed than Gamzee intends.

“I am not exactly en-fucking-thused about it either, kid!” the adult barks. “Nobody ain't _ever_ ready to deal with her shit, but you are SPECIAL FUCKING KINDS of not ready!”

Gamzee gulps, involuntarily drawing back again, all but stumbling backward. “You- you got an appreciation on this motherfucker being in at one piece... right?”

“Fuck knows why,” the Grand Highblood admits.

“'Cause I'm an endearing little shit?” Gamzee suggests, carefully taking another step back, after the first has drawn no wrath. 

The Highblood snorts. “Don't play cute,” he growls. “You are way too much of a gangly fuck to play cute.”

A little self-consciously, Gamzee crosses his arms, as if that's going to make him less made entirely of awkward angles. “Sorry, sir,” he mutters.

“Look, ok, I'd rather _not_ see you get your fucking ass smeared across half the fleet,” the Grand Highblood continues, with a sigh, staring fixedly at a spot high on the opposite wall if it's going to offer some sort of reassurance. “Call it vanity, I guess. Call it fucking pride. I've gone and invested a lot in you already, kid.”

Gamzee's relaxing a little at that – it's not quite praise, but coming from the Grand Highblood it might as well be – when the adult's full attention is once again on him.

“But,” the Highblood snarls, taking a long stride toward Gamzee, and Gamzee steps back in turn and finds that he's now backed himself up against the closed door, the handle of which is poking him in the back, “it will be a BRIGHT and SUNNY DAY in GL'BGOLYB'S LAIR before you are worth more than the THOUSAND FUCKING SWEEPS of my career. UNDERSTAND?”

Mutely, eyes wide in his painted face, Gamzee nods.

“You will NOT give the Empress excuse to prefer you dead.”

Gamzee nods.

“You will NOT FUCKING EMBARRASS ME.”

Gamzee nods.

“You will BE ON YOUR BEST FUCKING BEHAVIOR – no, wait, scratch that, you will be ON THE BEST FUCKING BEHAVIOR of someone who is ACTUALLY COMPETENT AT THIS SORT OF SHIT, because I have got the WORST suspicion that I have already seen YOUR best behavior.”

Once more, Gamzee nods.

“Any _questions_?” the Highblood snaps, making “question” sound like “interesting new variety of flesh-eating disease.”

Gamzee's mouth is very dry; he has to swallow hard a couple of times to find his voice. “Why's her Imperiousness any interested on me in the first place?” 

The adult growls at that, but there's something almost distracted about the sound, and backs off a little, turning away. “She ain't. She just likes to fucking unnecessarily remind ME she's still in charge. Which is why you have got a fucking chance of not getting your ass culled if you have got two spongecells to rub together.”

Gamzee can't tell whether he's expected to respond to that, so he just nods again, slowly.

The Grand Highblood snorts. “And cut that out, kid, you look like a fucking bobble-head,” he says, and it takes every ounce of Gamzee's self-control not to respond to _that_ with a nod.

“Right. We leave in five days, assuming the navigatrix don't decide she's fucked everything up and needs to recalculate the approach,” the Grand Highblood finally says, breaking what had been shaping up to be one hell of an awkward silence. “Shouldn't take more than two or three weeks – if she decides to hold onto me longer, we'll ship you back solo.”

“I, uh, got schoolfeeding and shit,” Gamzee points out hesitantly, and his ancestor rolls his eyes.

“I fucking know that, idiot. Don't think you're going to get out of it, neither,” he replies. “You'll just have to work on your own for a couple of weeks – I'll make sure you've got the shit. You got a husktop, right?”

Slowly, Gamzee shakes his head. “Not really all as such?”

The adult fixes him with an incredulous look. “And why the actual fuck not?”

“'Cause I thought at I wouldn't never need none after I got motherfucking culled?” he points out. “I all had one. Like before conscription and shit. But I gave it to a motherfucker what didn't have as fucking sweet a one though.”

Come to think of it, he kind of hopes Karkat didn't get rid of that husktop in a fit of pique while he thought Gamzee was dead – he wouldn't put it past the guy, though. Still, that had been a nice computer, even if it had been a little buggy by the time Gamzee was done with it. 

“And you ain't done anything about it since?” the Grand Highblood demands.

Gamzee shrugs. His ancestor sighs.

“Of course you fucking didn't, what am I thinking?” he growls. “Ok. Fine, you little asshole, I'll deal with that, too. Get the fuck out of here.”

Gamzee doesn't need to be dismissed twice.

When he re-emerges into the common block, Lydain and Rossan seem intent on taking up as much of the block between them as possible; she perches on the edge of the caffeinated refreshment table, he is draped over most of a couch. Gamzee doens't pause long enough to figure out what they're talking about; he gives a slight wave in greeting and passes through without paying them any further attention.

He glances into his own respiteblock as he passes and finds Sephar once again camped at the computer, focused on a rapidly moving chat log; Gamzee figures it's probably best not to try to fight that battle right now, and heads off to the showers instead.

 

The next evening, Gamzee's distracted at weapons training and takes a few nasty welts and lumps off of Rossan. After about the third time that he blows past Gamzee's guard with hardly any effort, the shorter troll steps back, crossing his arms and glaring up at him, clearly confused.

“Whatgives?” he demands. “Usually you're wayfaster than me, dude.”

“Huh?” Gamzee responds, trying to rub the feeling back into his stinging arm and hand. He's suddenly aware that they're not the only ones who've stopped; on the next mat over, Lazapi and Staiko aren't even trying to pretend like they're not curiously watching the exchange, and on the other side of the block Lydain takes advantage of Sephar's distraction to dump her on the ground with a deftly executed leg sweep that's not technically allowed under the rules of the exercise, eliciting a facepalm from Arsast, who is currently sitting on the sidelines.

“Hello, comein Gamzee,” Rossan drawls, half laughing. “Sincewhen can I even hardlyland a hit on you? Usually after fighting you I've gottagoa round withLazapi, just to patchup my ego.”

“Hey, now,” Lazapi objects, and Rossan flashes her a smile that is not apologetic in the least.

“So what,” Rossan continues, “you getinto some shit youshouldn'thave?”

“ _No_ ,” Gamzee snaps, suddenly a good deal more alert than he's been all night. He glares, giving his sore arm one more shake and then resettling his grip on the practice club. “Just fucking distracted, is all.”

Rossan gives him a skeptical look. “Yeah, andwhat's so distracting it's moreinteresting than _me_?”

“Nothing you gotta get your interest on, bro,” Gamzee growls, and then when Rossan continues to give him that _look_ \- and the rest are still arranged in varying attitudes of rubbernecking or totally not eavesdropping, what are you talking about? - adds, “Gee-Aich all got me informed on what he got another bullshit fieldtrip on me next week.”

He doesn't turn to look, but he's pretty sure that obnoxious, long-suffering sigh came from Sephar.

Rossan shrugs, and tosses his own baton from one hand to the other. “Sure, dude, whateveryousay.”

As they fall back into the rhythm of sparring – Gamzee thinks he's doing a little better, now, having had his attention called to how out of it he'd been – Rossan continues to question him. “Youknow, you never toldanyone whathappened last time you disappearedonus.”

"Nothing but that's fucking boring and embarassing," Gamzee replies, sidestepping out of Rossan's reach.

"Andthistime?"

"What about it, brother?"

"Where you going? Youknow?"

Gamzee hesitates a long moment, and in doing so, takes yet another strike from his opponent - that one's probably going to bruise - before grudgingly admitting, "Battleship Condescension."

Rossan raises an eyebrow in surprise, and from somewhere across the block comes Lydain's muttered singsong - "Purrbeastie, purrbeastie, where gone you hence? 'To the empire's flagship, to see the Condesce.'"

"Oh my god, shut up and pay attention," Sephar snaps at her, and Gamzee bites back a grin.

"No kidding," Rossan says, apparently ignoring the girls.

"Ain't my idea of a motherfucking great time at doing," Gamzee points out.

"If you diehorribly, can I haveyourstuff?" Rossan asks.

Gamzee tries not to flinch at the question. "Man, Rossan, what even all makes you think I got any shit worth passing at you?" he asks, trying to sound lighthearted. "Already up and gave all my good stuff away to deserving motherfuckers once this sweep."

Rossan shrugs, swings at him again; this time, Gamzee manages to intercept the blow with a solid block. "Figured itwas wortha try," he says loftily.

Gamzee sighs, and shifts his grip on his weapon. Something tells him it's going to be a long week. 

 

He hurries back to his block during lunch to use the computer – and yeah, suddenly it _is_ occurring to him that it would be nice to still have his husktop – and has a brief moment of private discouragement as he looks at his depressingly short, depressingly off-line contact list. 

Awfully narrow range of colors, too, now that he thinks of it. Back on Alternia he hadn't hardly talked to half of the extended group, but he'd kind of enjoyed the way his contact list looked with the whole rainbow thing going on. 

Then Terezi's screen name lights up as she comes online, and he clicks on it. His fingers stumble over his quirk a little more than usual, but he's determined to keep it up.

___ **terminallyCapricious** has contacted **gallowsCalibrator** ___  
TC: yO, SiS  
GC: H3Y G4MZ33  
GC: WH4TS UP? YOUR3 USU4LLY NOT ONL1N3 1N TH3 M1DDL3 OF TH3 N1GHT  
TC: JuSt aLl gOt mY MoThErFuCkInG HoPe uP At jAwInG At tOwArD YoU, LeGaLcItA  
GC: WHOS D34D/M1SS1NG/1RR4T1ON4LLY OUT FOR YOUR BLOOD TH1S T1M3  
TC: wHaT  
TC: NoOnE  
TC: nOoNe i'Ve gOt mY KnOw oN AnYhOw  
GC: SO WH4TS GO1NG ON?  
TC: WhEn aT's tHe nExT TiMe wE'rE At gEtTiNg oUr gEt tOgEtHeR ToGeThEr?  
GC: YOU M34N L1K3 TH3 WHOL3 GROUP?  
TC: sO MuCh a wHoLe mOtHeRfUcKiNg gRoUp aS Us mOtHeRfUcKeRs aLl gOt aNyHoW  
GC: N3XT W33K  
GC: 1M NOT SUR3 OFF TH3 TOP OF MY H34D WH1CH D4Y BUT 1 COULD LOOK 1T UP  
TC: bUt lIkE AlL MoRe tHaN FoUr dAyS AfTeR NoW?  
GC: Y34H  
TC: shit  
GC: WH4T?  
GC: TH4T 1S NOT 4 PROM1S1NG 1NT3RJ3CT1ON G4MZ33  
TC: FUCK THIS SHIT  
TC: fuck my life  
GC: 1 C4NT T3LL WH3TH3R YOUR3 B31NG FR1GHT3N1NG OR OBNOX1OUSLY M3LODR4M4T1C  
GC: PROB4BLY GO1NG TO GO W1TH BOTH  
TC: FuCk, oK, I'm oK  
TC: aIn'T GoNnA Be aBlE To mAkE It nExT WeEk tHoUgH  
GC: FOR R34L TH1S T1M3?  
TC: YeAh  
TC: gH SaYs aT We'Ll Be gOnE LiKe hAlF A PeRiGeE  
GC: WHY?  
GC: WH3R3?  
TC: SeEmS I GoT BrOuGhT Up At tHe aTtEnTiOn oF ThE MoThErFuCkInG CoNdEsCeNsIoN WhAt wItH My kEePiNg kIcKiNg tHe wIcKeD ShIt aLl lIvInG LiKe aNd aLl aNd nOw sHe wAnTs tO SeE Me  
GC: OK 1 T4K3 1T B4CK 4BOUT YOU B31NG M3LODR4M4T1C  
GC: FUCK YOUR L1F3  
TC: yOu bEtTeR Be rEaL ThAnKfUl nO MoThErFuCKeR AlL CaReS WhO YoUr aNcEsToR WaS At bEiNg, cHiCa  
TC: I Am sO FuCkInG DoNe wItH ThIs sHiT  
GC: 1 B3T!  
TC: tO GeT At aNy kInD Of aCcUrAtE SaYiNg oF HoW DoNe i mOtHeRfUcKiNg aM WiTh tHiS YoU'd nEeD To aLl bE GeTtInG OuT SoMe sOrT Of fAnCy sCiENtIFiC NuMbEr rEcKoNiNg  
TC: AnD YoU KnOw hOw aT I FeEl oN ScIeNcE, SiStEr  
GC: BUT YOU 4R3 GO1NG TO COM3 B4CK  
GC: R1GHT?  
TC: tHaT's tHe pLaN  
GC: ONLY 1 R34LLY DONT W4NT TO H4V3 TO T3LL K4RK4T 4ND T4VROS TH4T YOU 3ND3D UP ON 4N 1MP3R14L TR1D3NT  
TC: YeAh wElL I DoN't wAnT YoU To eItHeR  
TC: iMmA Be oK, TeReZi  
TC: AnD I AiN't fUlL Of fUcKiNg pErForAtIoNs yEt  
TC: jUsT GoNnA Be gOnE A WhIlE  
GC: GOOD LUCK  
TC: ThAnKs, sIs  
TC: hAhA I GuEsS LaZaPi cAn tAkE At mY TuRn nExT WeEk  
GC: YOU ST1LL W4NT TO 1NV1T3 H3R?  
TC: PrEtTy mUcH AlReAdY HaVe, aIn'T We?  
TC: bE CoOl, lAwSiS, I ToLd aT YoU  
TC: LaZApI'S A GoOd mOtHeRfUcKeR  
GC: JUST TO B3 CL34R  
GC: W3 4R3 T4LK1NG 4BOUT TH3 G1RL WHO THOUGHT 1T W4S FUNNY TO PR3T3ND SH3 D1DNT KNOW WH4T 1 W4S T4LK1NG 4BOUT WH3N 1 W4S TRY1NG TO F1GUR3 OUT 1F YOU W3R3 YOU  
GC: R1GHT?  
TC: wHaT WhEn  
GC: B4CK WH3N YOU F1RST SURF4C3D 4FT3R CONSCR1PT1ON  
TC: OoOoOoH  
TC: yEaH BuT ShE HaD LoTs oF ReAsOn tO Be gEtTiNg hEr aNgEr oN At mY AsS  
TC: AnD BuT It aLl wOrKeD OuT AlL MiRaClEs tHoUgH, RiGhT?  
GC: 1M JUST NOT SUR3 1 L1K3 H3R  
TC: lOoK, SiStEr  
TC: I DoN't aCtUaLlY GoT AlL ThAt mUcH MoThErFuCkInG CaRe oN OvEr wHeThEr yOu lIkE LaZaPi oR NoT  
TC: i lIkE HeR AnD EqUiBrO AnD HeR ArE AlL ThE FuCk oVeR EaCh oThEr  
TC: AnD NoNe oF ThIs sHiT AiN't gOnNa gEt nOwHeRe lOnG As uS MoThErFuCkErS SiT On oUr sItUpOnS FeElInG AlL Up sMuG OvEr bEiNg sPeCiAl aNd nOt eVeR NeVeR LeTtInG NoOnE ElSe iN  
TC: aNd lAz iS To bEiNg aBoUt tHe mOsT HaRmLeSs mOtHeRfUcKeR YoU CoUlD WiSh aFtEr  
GC: Y34H W3LL TH4TS WH4T W3 US3D TO S4Y 4BOUT YOU  
GC: BUT PO1NT T4K3N  
GC: 1 C4NT PROM1S3 1 WONT GL4R3 4T H3R 4 LOT THOUGH  
TC: ThAt'S AlL ThE MiRaClE AnY MoThErFuCkEr cOuLd aSk aT, My sIsTeR  
GC: YOULL G1V3 US 4 H34DS UP WH3N YOU G3T B4CK?  
TC: oF FuCkInG CoUrSe  
TC: Uh, hEy?  
GC: Y34H?  
TC: cOuLd yOu aLl nOt gEt oN TeLlInG KaRkAt wHy i aIn'T CoMiNg?  
TC: LiKe tElL HiM I GoT My aSs dRaGgEd oFf sOmEpLaCe bY My aNcEsToR Or wHaTeVeR  
TC: bUt dOn'T TeLl tHe mOtHeRfUcKeR YoU KnOw wHeRe  
GC: H3S GO1NG TO W4NT TO KNOW  
TC: DoN't mEaN He nEeDs tO  
TC: i'Ll fIlL HiSsElF In nExT TiMe, yOu tElL HiM NoW AnD He'S OnLy jUsT GoNnA FuCkInG WoRrY BoUt sHiT He cAn'T Do nOtHiNg aBoUt  
GC: 1 ST1LL DONT TH1NK TH4TS 4 GR34T 1D34  
TC: SiS WhO ExAcTlY Is bEiNg hIs mOiRaIl hErE?  
GC: 1 4M JUST 4S MUCH 1N 4 QU4DR4NT W1TH H1M 4S YOU 4R3!  
GC: 1 4M 4LLOW3D TO B3 CONC3RN3D 4BOUT TH1S SH1T!  
TC: sO FuCkInG TrUsT Me uP In tHiS ShIt, tErEzI  
TC: He'S GoT EnOuGh oN HiS NuTrItIoN PlAtTeR  
GC: >:[  
GC: F1N3  
GC: 1 C4NT PROM1S3 1 WONT SP1LL TH3 DR13D L3GUM3S 1F H3 PR3SS3S BUT 1 WONT VOLUNT33R TH3 1NFORM4T1ON TH4T YOU 4R3 OFF G3TT1NG PRODD3D 4T BY TH3 3MPR3SS  
GC: H4PPY?  
TC: nOt pArTiCuLaRlY  
TC: BuT I CaN GeT At mOtHeRfUcKiNg lIvInG WiTh aLl tHaT  
GC: >:[  
TC: :o(  
GC: 4NY OTH3R 4WFUL L1F3 CHO1C3S YOU W4NT TO 1MPOS3 ON M3?  
TC: nOt I cAn bRiNg tO MiNd  
GC: TH3N 1M GO1NG TO GO 34T LUNCH  
GC: L4T3R G4MZ33  
GC: TRY NOT TO D13

___ **gallowsCalibrator** has cut contact with **terminallyCapricious** ___

Gamzee sighs, logging off of chat and pushing his chair back from the computer. Come to think of it, he hasn't eaten yet, either; he doesn't feel particularly hungry but he kind of figures he might as well grab something while he's got time; if these nerves ever wear off, he's going to be starving.

Of course, what with the nerves and all, it's not so much that he doesn't want to eat as it is that he doesn't want food. A pie would make it a lot easier to deal with everything right now... but that's obviously not going to happen.

In the hallway, he passes Lydain; both of them continue on their respective ways, but Gamzee distinctly hears the second stanza of the cocoon rhyme as she goes. “Purrbeastie, purrbeastie, how came you back? 'Even a beast knows when not to attack...'”

Why is it that everyone seems to feel the need to tell him not to get his ass killed?


	29. A Little Finesse, Sometimes

Gamzee hopes that something will come up and force a postponement, but no such luck; he sees little of his ancestor over the next few nights, and what he does see of the older troll mostly makes Gamzee want to stay out of the adult's way. The Grand Highblood's sour preoccupation doesn't help Gamzee's own mood, and it's not long before he kind of starts to realize that his friends and classmates aren't really all that much more eager to hang around him than he is to catch his ancestor's attention.

He briefly considers whether he cares, and decides he doesn't. A guy's entitled to a little antisocial behavior once in a while, probably. Anyway, if they're too jumpy to talk to him, they're too jumpy to complain.

And if he's extending just the slightest bit of voodoo to keep certain people jumpy? Ok, yeah, he is, but he's not sure anyone else has caught on – maybe Sephar, but she seems to have descended into one of her glaring-and-shutting-up moods, and the closest she comes to saying anything is the occasional brief retaliatory flash of unsettling breathlessness. He considers leaning on her a little harder, and decides against it; a meltdown from Sephar does not sound like his idea of a good time at the moment.

He's not sure he would have been able to use that kind of light touch, a few perigees ago. Certainly not on purpose. Maybe there are a few miracles tucked away in this whole mess after all – Gamzee's just really not in the mood to properly appreciate them. Maybe he'll sit down and have a good think on it later, when he's not dealing with any kind of massive impending doom.

If there's a later. If there's any point where he's not dealing with massive impending doom. Fuck but he wants... well, the same things as always. Sopor, his friends, his moirail. A break. It's getting to the point where his own inner monologue of _I want, I want_ is starting to feel repetitive and boring. Is that progress, of a sort?

He _really_ wishes he wasn't about to totally miss a chance to talk shit over with Karkat.

The night before their projected departure, at the beginning of the freeshift, he has a brief encounter in the corridor with the Grand Highblood – an encounter which, if he didn't know any better, Gamzee would almost have thought to be entirely by chance. The adult growls a terse confirmation that everything's in order for their little excursion, shoves a vaguely husktop-shaped package at Gamzee with enough force that it nearly knocks the younger troll off his feet, and leaves without a backward glance. It takes Gamzee a short moment to regain his balance; a somewhat longer moment, and he's almost regained his equilibrium.

Well, no, that's not entirely accurate. His bloodpusher is still pounding fit to fracture his ribs, after all. But he does manage to fight down the bile in his throat and the static of uncontrolled fearmongering in his horns. Damn. He'd thought he'd come to terms with this whole mess already. Guess not.

He stows the new husktop in his sylladex without even opening the packaging, and counts himself lucky that the schoolfeeding sessions are over for the day. There's no way he'd be able to concentrate now.

There is one thing he probably ought to make sure he sees to, though, and when he gets back to the subjugglator novitiates' quarters, he's a little relieved to find Lazapi in the common block, boots propped up on the caffeinated refreshment table and pad of paper propped against her knees. Hell yeah – he so isn't in the mood to have to look for people right now. Of course, on the other hand, now that he's found her this easily he's not sure how to lead off the conversation, and he kind of wanders over to stand awkwardly over her for a long moment, until she glances up, and rolls her eyes.

“You're in my light, Gamzee, move. You're blocking the light.”

He chuckles, though he's not sure why, and she sets down her pen and looks up at him. “What?”

“Look, sister, we gotta get our conversation on real quick,” he says. “Like, motherfucker to motherfucker, just two.”

She glances around at the otherwise deserted common block. “Yeah? I don't see anyone else here.”

He hesitates, unsure, and she sighs, straightening her glasses. “Sephar and Arsast are watching Choral Melee on the computer in your block, Lydain said she was meeting up with some circus friends after class, I know for a fact that Staiko's not finished with that essay that's due tomorrow so he's probably going to spend the morning holed up in his block working on it, and honestly I don't want to know where Rossan is but he's not here,” she recites. “So if there's something you've got to tell me, sit down and fucking say it.” 

After a brief moment more of uncertainty, he shrugs and comes to sit down, plopping down onto the couch with a bounce that makes Lazapi yelp a little and pull her pen away from her sketchpad.

“So. Uh. On account of the Gee-Aich dragging my ass halfway 'cross the fleet, I ain't gonna be here next week when all our motherfuckers will be at able to talk back at our bros an' sisses back elsewhere-like,” he says, not looking at her. “So you gotta be making all sure you get from Equius when and where the meetup is at, right.”

Lazapi makes a small sound that's somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “Of course.”

“An' don't let Terezi all give you shit,” he adds. “But don't give her shit either though? She's already figured at she don't like you.”

“So?” Lazapi responds, and Gamzee's not sure whether he hears caution or annoyance in her voice.

“So she's closest at we got all to a savvy motherfucker,” Gamzee explains with a sigh. “Tealblood sister all knows what is fucking what, she is sharp. And you already at gave her reason not to get appreciative at you, ok? Way back perigees ago.”

Lazapi doesn't respond for a long moment; he glances over and finds her looking pensive and slightly confused. Then she buries her face in her hand – the same hand that she's still holding the pen with, scoring a line of ink across her cheek. It's brown, today. He wonders who it came from – if she even keeps track.

“She's the one who wanted to know if you were really yourself, isn't she?” she asks. “And then I got pissed off and told her you weren't.”

Gamzee shrugs. “That's about being the color of it,” he agrees.

“And now she thinks I'm an awful spiteful bitch who can't be trusted.”

Gamzee can't quite disagree with that assessment of the situation, but he kind of shrugs again. “Terezi's a cautious motherfucker, is all. And she likes knowing at what's going on around her better than anybody else,” he says. “Most all the time, that's where she's at anyhow? So she just gets pissy if at she don't hold all the cards.”

Lazapi nods, slowly, from behind the prolonged facepalm. “Yeah, ok,” she says. “Thanks for warning me.”

“Any time, sister.”

He hauls himself to his feet, meaning to wander off somewhere else, and when he listens for a moment he can faintly hear the strains of an overblown pop number coming from somewhere down the hallway. After a moment's consideration, he looks back at Lazapi. “You said Sephar and Arsast was in _my_ block?”

She almost smiles. “Yeah, I wouldn't go in there unless you _want_ to get drawn into an argument about the continuity or lack thereof on Choral Melee.”

“I figure to get argumentative on that I'd gotta know something about it,” he replies mildly. He doesn't make any move in that direction, though.

“You might be surprised,” she replies. “Also you should count yourself lucky that Sephar doesn't actually like talking to you, I've learned more about that show than I wanted to know just from sharing a block with Arsast, you should be glad if Sephar hasn't tried to get you to watch.”

Gamzee chuckles. “What, he making a meleek outta you, sister?”

“Hardly. He's about as likely to get me to go Circus as he is to get me into Choral Melee,” she says, and this time it's accompanied by a real smile – small, a little crooked, but a smile. “I've just got more specific reasons to not want to watch it, now.”

“Yeah, sure,” Gamzee laughs, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “You mind if I hang out here, though?”

Lazapi shrugs. “It's a public space,” she says, her tone a little dismissive.

“Bitchtits,” he replies, a little more cheerfully than he really feels. He sits down again, giving her a little more space this time. A minute or so fumbling with his sylladex produces the new husktop – Gamzee's pretty sure by now that he isn't using the fetch modus properly, and never has, but that doesn't mean that he can be bothered to find out how to not just make things jump around randomly. He's got enough other shit to figure out – how to get the new computer set up so he can use it, for a start. 

 

Gamzee has trouble falling asleep that morning, too wound up for the sopor slime, which feels thinner than ever although he's fairly certain it's the same mix he's been on for perigees, to have much effect. Once he manages to drop off, though, he sleeps deeply; if he dreams between tossing and turning in the morning and being awoken by the sound of someone kicking the outside of the recuperacoon hours later, he doesn't remember it.

Not that being startled awake like that is exactly conducive to remembering dreams. After two or three kicks, Gamzee decides there's no point in pretending he's still asleep, and flops over to where he can look out of the recuperacoon port. Where, perhaps predictably, he finds Sephar, her boot in mid-swing.

“Aight, aight,” he grumbles. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” she demands, but at least she stops kicking. “GH is looking for you, dope.”

“Aw, shit, already?” Gamzee groans, but he's already on his way out of the recuperacoon and scraping the sopor off. “What time's it at?”

“I dunno, like seven?” Sephar replies. “I swear to god, if you track sopor on the floor and leave I am going to -”

“You're gonna not get the GH all fucking peeved at you for holding me up longer than you gotta,” he finishes.

“Well, maybe if you got up at a reasonable time -”

Gamzee rolls his eyes, although the gesture is probably wasted as he's pulling on his shirt. “Sephar? Shut the mother fuck up. I got my understanding _way_ on that I am mother fucking behind schedule.”

“You're awful.”

“And you're repetitive, girl.” He frowns into his sylladex for a moment. “You seen my paint anywhere?”

“Why the hell would I? It's like the one thing you actually don't leave lying around,” Sephar snarls, but she glances into the flashing, colorful mess for a moment. “There. Shit, no, there. How the hell do you put up with this modus?”

“Practice,” he replies, a little smugly, and snags the paint pots.

“Practice what, having sponge damage?” she gripes.

“Why the fuck you even still here?” Gamzee demands, as he spreads white greasepaint over his face.

Sephar sighs, possibly the most exasperated sound Gamzee's heard all week. “He sent me to find you, like hell am I going back out there without you. I like my limbs where they _are_.”

Gamzee considers this as he finishes with the white paint, and shrugs. “Fair enough, I s'pose.”

She doesn't reply, though she rocks back and forth on her heels as he finishes applying his paint, and keeps glancing over at the door. Gamzee does a last check of his sylladex to make sure he's got everything he needs – or at least, probably does, it takes longer than he's willing to wait for the cards to cycle all the way through, but he's pretty sure he saw everything flashing around in the background. Then, with a muttered entreaty to the Mirthful Messiahs, he heads out the door and down the hallway.

He tries not to let on that he's noticed the way that Lydain doesn't even pretend she's not watching from the door of her block, toying with a nail file in a way that has got to be doing precious little for the actual state of her nails. Gamzee kind of wonders where the others are, then kind of wonders why he wonders. It's not like he's ever been one for prolonged goodbyes. Or goodbyes in general.

Sure enough, the Grand Highblood is waiting. He looks... somewhat less impatient or irritated than Gamzee has sometimes seen him in the past, which seems like a good sign. Gamzee hopes it is, at least.

“You ready?” the adult growls.

Gamzee tries to look slightly less miserable and terrified than he actually is, and nods. “As I'm ever gonna be,” he answers.

There's the briefest flicker of something that might be sympathy behind the Highblood's paint. “Probably true,” he sighs. “C'mon then.” 

 

This time, it's not the tiny, sleek starsprinter they board but a proper light warship bristling with actual weaponry and big enough to sport an actual crew, albeit not a big one.

Nor are they the only passengers; by the time they duck onto the little observation deck (duck being the operative word; Gamzee has to be careful of his horns going through some of the doors and he half suspects that his ancestor enjoys the effect of appearing outlandishly outsized for his environment), it's already occupied by a tall, vaguely familiar seadweller woman, standing with her back to them and peering out of the broad viewports with her hands folded behind her back. Gamzee's still trying to place her when she turns to look at them; her eyes flick from the Grand Highblood to Gamzee and her already sour expression sharpens.

“You're still dragging him around?” she asks.

The Grand Highblood makes a sound that might, if one was feeling charitable, be classified as a chuckle. “Obviously.”

“I honestly thought he'd be dead by now,” she says, as if Gamzee isn't standing right there – Blackice, he thinks, that was her name. “It would appear that I owe Vextruth a drink.”

“Might want to wait a few fucking days before paying that up,” the Highblood responds. “Empress wants to see the kid. You might be able to claim that wager yet.”

Privately, Gamzee kind of figures that if he ever gets the chance in the future, continuing to get on Overseer Vextruth's good side might be a good idea. There aren't a lot of people that he knows of who would actually bet in favor of his continued survival. Even for such low stakes, the vote of confidence is kind of encouraging.

Blackice makes a noncommittal noise that might be agreement, looking Gamzee over again; Gamzee tries not to look too immature or imminently deceased, although he's really not sure how to manage either.

“Are we waiting on anyone else?” she finally asks, turning her attention back to the older Capricorn.

“Not unless it's on your end. You got anyone you're that eager to get off your fucking hands?”

“Just because you have some strange fascination with surrounding yourself with incompetent children doesn't mean the rest of us expect to lose everyone we bring onto the Battleship Condescension, you know,” Blackice says, a little primly. “But no, what little staff I have accompanying me is already on board.”

“Excel-fucking-lent,” growls the Grand Highblood.

“Which means, of course, I'd prefer _you_ didn't terrorize them unnecessarily, either.”

With a dark chuckle, the Highblood glances over his shoulder at Gamzee. “Hear that? Try not to break the Securator's lackeys, kid.”

“I don't all go 'round culling every motherfucker I lay ganderbulbs on, sir,” Gamzee gripes.

“Fuck, really? When'd this happen?”

With a heavy sigh, Blackice turns and stalks out of the observation deck, muttering an exasperated, “ _Indigos_ ,” as she brushes past them.

“Hey!” the Highblood calls after her. “How's Firesong doing?”

The seadweller doesn't look back, but she does raise her voice a little to respond, “The Minstrel is _happily flushed_ for someone who is _not_ her moirail's direct superior, thanks for asking, Vitaldye!”

“Anyone I know? Or oughta have assassinated?”

Peering down the narrow, dim corridor, Gamzee doesn't quite catch the gesture that Blackice makes before disappearing through a doorway, but the Grand Highblood bursts into genial but not entirely pleasant laughter. “I could have you culled for that, seabitch!”

“You've been saying that for decades!” is the reply, slightly muted by distance and several layers of walls.

The Grand Highblood chuckles, turning back to the transparent bulkhead. “Good to see her in a decent mood,” he mutters, and Gamzee can't shake the feeling that this is going to be a very long trip. 

Even objectively speaking, it's a long trip, long enough to require accommodations on board the ship. Not very _accommodating_ accommodations; Gamzee's allotted a berth that's private mostly by virtue of being at least eighty percent recuperacoon. What little space there is is bare, otherwise, and he's glad he didn't have reason to bring anything other than what's stored in his sylladex – there simply wouldn't be room. Other, similarly tiny rooms open off the same narrow corridor, housing the pair of trolls who make up Blackice's staff – bodyguard and secreterrorist, he thinks – along with some of the higher-ranking crew. He's not sure where the Highblood and the seadweller are staying, but he'd be willing to bet they've got more space.

His recuperacoon is already set to his _special_ mix. He's not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. He hadn't wanted to have that particular conversation again, but somehow it's a little disappointing not to have to decide whether or not to raise the question.

It doesn't take Gamzee long to find the crew mess hall; he figures that in the absence of anyone telling him to clear off, it's probably ok for him to hang out in there. There's certainly not room in his cabin, but no one seems to care if he monopolizes a corner of the mess.

Actually, the crew seems content to ignore him entirely, and he kind of figures that can be a mutual thing. He catches Blackice's secreterrorist studying him a few times, a ropey, sharp-horned greenblooded man, but a moment of eye contact moves him on his way. Gamzee doesn't even touch his mind – he's pretty sure that a little 'voodoo for intimidation purposes wouldn't count as “breaking” anything, but he really doesn't give enough of a fuck to go messing with the guy's head.

Maybe he's still a little self-satisfied at being able to _not_ chucklevoodoo everyone in sight.

A few nights into the voyage, Gamzee frowns at his husktop and tries to will a history essay into writing itself and really kind of wishes he wasn't out here all by himself when he's pretty sure that back home Rossan is probably using the “intentionally say something wrong in front of Lydain and then take notes while she corrects him” strategy. Probably at some point she's going to catch on, but as far as Gamzee can tell she hasn't yet, unless she's just humoring them.

If she's not just humoring them, maybe she'll figure it out while Gamzee's gone and settle for just kicking Rossan's ass in the other clown's absence.

As satisfying as the idea of avoiding Lydain's wrath is, however, it doesn't make the history paper any closer to being finished. Gamzee sighs, and pokes halfheartedly through his notes again. He's pretty sure that this is one of those subjects where doing the work would be a lot easier if he hadn't been completely off his head while he was supposed to be doing the initial schoolfeeding, as a kid. Or, conversely, if he could be completely off his head _now_. Not that sopor would help write the paper, but he'd sure be a lot less frustrated...

Not a productive line of thought.

He's gone through this entirely unproductive cycle of not writing a damn thing several times, when his ancestor appears, looming in the door of the mess hall. “Hey, kid, you busy?”

Something in the adult's tone kind of suggests that maybe he _shouldn't_ be busy right at this moment, and anyway the cursor still blinks on a mostly-blank page, so Gamzee sighs and shuts the husktop. “Probably oughta be,” he says. “But I ain't.”

The Grand Highblood chuckles. “C'mon, then,” he says, and turns to go without waiting to see if Gamzee's following.

Gamzee does follow, of course; it doesn't take as much effort to keep up with his ancestor as it sometimes does, probably at least partly because the Grand Highblood has to keep ducking to avoid the ceiling struts, which Gamzee's horns easily clear by at least a few inches. This isn't a ship that's particularly built to accommodate a full-grown Capricorn – and from what Gamzee's seen of it, it's not particularly big in any other sense, either.

“So, uh, where the fuck are we even going at?” he asks, after a moment.

“You ever saw a helmsman up close?”

Gamzee shakes his head, then realizes that the gesture is pretty much useless when the adult has his back to him. “No, sir.”

“Interested in correcting that fucking oversight?”

Honestly, Gamzee's not sure how interested he actually is, but he's pretty sure the question is rhetorical. “Uh, sure.”

“Excellent.” There's a note of good humor in the Highblood's voice, and Gamzee's got just enough experience of his ancestor to be a little worried by it. 

The helm proves to be much larger than Gamzee expected, narrow, but as far as he can tell at least two or three stories tall; they enter onto a kind of catwalk that runs about halfway up the wall, between a ceiling and floor which are both all but lost in the tangle of sluggishly twitching biopsionic cables. The door makes a faint pneumatic hiss as they enter, and down near the floor, a tealblooded technician looks up, hastily stashing what looks very much like a magazine into her sylladex before climbing quickly up a ladder to the platform where the subjugglators stand.

In the middle of the chamber, almost exactly at Gamzee's eye level, a troll hangs unresponsive and half-entombed in the tendrils of the helmsman array.

The Grand Highblood barely glances at the teal as she approaches, although he does bark out a demand of “Title and name?”

“Engineer Catchcog. Can I help you, sirs?” she adds, with a shallow bow and a definite note of nervousness in her voice.

“Just reviewing shit,” the Highblood replies, a distracted kind of growl. “Showing the novitiate around. This still the Magnes bastard we got here?”

“Yessir, your Levity,” she replies. “Cruising speed in open space draws about sixty percent power from this one; it's got several sweeps good service left.”

Gamzee glances at his ancestor, a little cautiously, then steps forward to the rail at the edge of the platform. From here, the helmsman is just out of arm's reach, not that he's inclined to reach out and try to at grab him. At least, Gamzee's pretty sure the helmsman is a man, for all of the way that the Engineer refers to him as “it” - scrawny, narrowly built, but definitely a man. A sign is picked out in maroon on his jumpsuit, which surprises Gamzee a little – but no, Aradia had some psionics, too, didn't she? Not as strong as Sollux's, but hey, pretty much no one had psionics as strong as Sollux's, as anyone who had ever attempted to engage in smalltalk with Sollux probably knew.

The helmsman's eyes are open behind the transparent shield set into a fleshy twist of wires, but he stares straight ahead, vague and unresponsive. Curious, Gamzee reaches out with a careful echo of chucklevoodoo. For a moment, it seems as if there's no mind there to touch – but that's not _quite_ true, there's a current that runs deep, almost too deep for him to reach, offering no easy fears to catch onto and manipulate. He's not really sure he's even sensing what he thinks he's sensing, and he pushes a little more power into the 'voodoos.

Behind him, the Grand Highblood chuckles, and Gamzee jumps, grabbing at the railing to steady himself.

“It's shut down, kid, you ain't gonna get a response,” the adult informs him, and then glances at the Engineer. “Any chance we can get him booted up?”

There's something about the question that clearly isn't a question.

The woman pulls a face. “I really wouldn't, your Levity, it's a screamer,” she replies. “Occasionally asks for its moirail, but otherwise I haven't heard a coherent word out of it in the five sweeps I've been working on it. Allowing it to wake only stresses it.”

“Shouldn't have that much fucking trouble with a helmsman that red,” the Grand Highblood grumbles. “That ain't any high-strung golden boy.”

“Things go wrong with the conditioning programs, sometimes, sir,” the tealblood points out, folding her hands behind her back. “There's absolutely no call for a conscious helmsman on this class of vessel, and it's perfectly serviceable for all functions needed of it.”

The huge legislacerator studies her for a moment; then, with a sharp smile that's almost lost in his angular facepaint, he shrugs. “Bring him the fuck around, Engineer.”

For a short, tense moment, she hesitates; Gamzee almost thinks she's going to refuse. He wonders what happens to a ship in space if the technician who knows best how to handle the helmsman is incapacitated, because he's pretty sure his ancestor isn't going to take no for an answer. But then the Engineer turns and walks briskly to a keypad and screen set into the wall at the end of the catwalk, and punches something in.

The helmsman jerks in his array, a small but oddly violent motion. Then he starts to scream.

It's a harsh, wordless sound, and when Gamzee clamps his hands over his ears it does little to block it out. He can hardly think straight; he realizes that he's beginning to leak chucklevoodoos again, his horns singing a counterpoint to the incoherent screams, and clamps down on the unintended psychic attack before it can draw the Grand Highblood's ire.

With a sigh, almost inaudible over the din but apparent in the almost exaggerated rise and fall of his massive shoulders, the Grand Highblood nods to the teal, who enters a second string into the keypad. As abruptly as the screaming started, silence falls, the helmsman once again little more than a troll-shaped component of the bioware that supports him. 

Gamzee's ears are still ringing, and he shakes his head a little in a totally unsuccessful attempt to clear out the echoes of the sound. Any self-consciousness he feels at the gesture evaporates when he glances at his ancestor and finds the older troll scowling and rubbing at one ear with the heel of his hand.

"You were not _fucking_ kidding, Engineer," the Grand Highblood growls, but the irritation seems to lie equally with the once again comatose helmsman and with the universe at large, rather than being directed specifically at Catchcog. "How long's it done that?"

"As long as I've worked on it," the tealblood repeats. "Technicians at the plant didn't say anything about it, but honestly as long as the inhibitor routines take they couldn't care less about the actual behavior of helmsmen, most of the time. Sir."

The Highblood sneers. "Lazy fuckers," he mutters. "You ever gotten this one reconditioned?"

"Doubt it'd make it through with its cerebral sponge intact, sir," she replies. "Not if it didn't take the first time. And putting him in the shop would mean taking the ship into dock until either they send this one back or assign a new helmsman, and -"

"And it's your pay on the line if the ship don't fucking fly," the Highblood finishes. Engineer Catchcog winces a little, probably at the blunt phrasing, Gamzee thinks, but she nods.

"Like I said, it works, sir," she says. It's a little hard to tell whether she's a little defensive or just uncomfortable. "Takes a little finesse sometimes, but it works."

Gamzee can't help thinking that if she gets the ship stranded through relying on her own finesse to handle a finicky helmsman, it's almost certainly going to cost the Engineer more than a few weeks worth of credits in her accounts, but the older Capricorn doesn't comment further and Gamzee's not feeling quite confident enough to bring up the point himself. The moment to speak up passes quickly, anyway, as the Grand Highblood turns to leave with no more warning or ceremony than an almost-growled, "With me, kid."

It's not until the door has slid shut behind them and Gamzee is once again scrambling to keep up - even in confined spaces, the older troll's longer stride and apparent lack of focus on anything but getting where he's going gives him a surprising turn of speed - that Gamzee hazards the question. "So, it's... it's at being _safe_ for a bunch of motherfuckers to all ninja about on a helmsfucker what's got that kind of dysfunction?"

"In fleet space? Sure," is the response. "Wouldn't go into a real combat zone on him, but Catchcog's right, there ain't really any need to wake up the bastard for glorified courier service. Most helmsmen in the fleet don't get lit up unless there's a fucking compelling need, anyway."

"Like...?"

The Grand Highblood gives a gravely chuckle. "Inquisitive all of a sudden, aren't you?"

"Uh, well." Gamzee wonders if that might be his cue to backpedal madly now, but the adult sounds more amused than annoyed. "Guess so, yeah."

"Some captains like to have another mind in the mix if there's a chance of actually getting shot at," the older Capricorn explains. "Think it improves maneuverability to let the helmsman do some piloting rather than rout everything through a fucking automated nav system. Who knows, they might even have a point. I ain't no great shakes at computers. Gotta keep a few people around who are."

"Yeah? Motherfuckin' enigma machines," Gamzee agrees with a chuckle. "Who the fuck even knows how they work."

The Grand Highblood pauses just outside the door that will lead back into the portion of the ship reserved for crew quarters. He turns back to swat at Gamzee, whose own forward momentum keeps him from being able to avoid the cuff that makes him stumble into a wall. "Kid, I know you're an idiot, but you don't have to sound so fucking proud of it."

For a moment that's way too long, Gamzee just kind of blinks at his ancestor, steadying himself with a hand braced against the side of the narrow corridor. "Uh?"

The Highblood scowls. "You ain't ever gonna know everything, but NEVER let me hear you being PLEASED you DON'T have a useful skill, hear? More you can do yourself, less you have to depend on other fuckers."

There has been, in Gamzee's opinion, way too much yelling going on on this ship today, and he nods, unhappily. "I hear at you," he replies, and it comes out more of a grumble than he'd really intended. "I think the whole fucking ship just all got their hearducts full just now."

"Well, congratulations. Now they all know you're a stupid shit, too." 

And with that, the Grand Highblood slams the sliding door open and storms off, presumably to make someone else's life uncomfortably exciting for a while.


	30. Undermined Every So Often

Gamzee's first glimpse of the Battleship Condescension is almost a little disappointing.

There's a viewscreen in the middle of one wall of the mess hall, a vaguely distorted facsimile of a window set among a muddle of aging propaganda posters and impromptu bulletins and notices. Gamzee's learned to mostly ignore it; they've been well away from the main body of the fleet for days, now; there's been nothing but a starscape that changes too slowly for Gamzee to notice on the screen. Well, that view and a constant scrolling line of text along one side, with the time and date and the occasional official notice that's too pressing or too fleeting to write out longhand and tack to the wall. It's not even clear what the screen is for, except maybe to dispel the claustrophobic feeling of being shut up in the small ship - and it hardly does that, any more than watching footage filmed planetside would convince anyone that they're actually looking out onto Alternia.

Even the observation deck at the prow of the ship, with its arc of genuine reinforced transparent plassheild, seems no larger than the dozen paces worth of space it contains. And as that space tends to include at least one of the ranking adults on the ship - both the Grand Highblood and Director Blackice frequent the observation deck, apparently more appreciative of the view than he is - Gamzee has made no particular habit of visiting that part of the ship. 

And then one evening he glances up at the viewscreen in the mess and finds, off-center and still far enough off that it seems almost like an afterthought in the otherwise starry sky, the sharply curved red shape of the Battleship Condescension.

The thing is, it's mostly distinguishable by virtue of its isolation; the silhouette is vaguely familiar in a seen-it-in-a-million-propagana-pieces kind of way, but cruising solo through empty space, it seems more lost than triumphant, almost a let-down after having traveled through the swarm of ships in the main body of the fleet.

Maybe that's just the effect of the little screen, though. Makes it seem small and far off and a little fake. Gamzee's not sure if that's how it actually works, but there's something odd about the idea that the flagship of the exploratory fleet - of the empire, really, of the civilization - would seem so insignificant to the naked eye, for no reason other than distance and isolation.

He shoves his stuff into his sylladex and... well, saying that he heads toward the observation deck with any purpose might not be entirely accurate, but that's where his feet lead him in fairly short order. And hey. Can't argue with his feet, can he? So he lets himself in.

As the door slides open with a small pneumatic kind of noise, the seadweller woman already inside looks up. Her face is clouded with something like annoyance, and as Gamzee hesitates, she gives a little toss of her horns. "Don't just stand in the doorway, boy, someone might actually want to make use of it eventually."

“Sorry, ma’am,” Gamzee mutters, although, torn between entering and retreating, he doesn’t actually move out of the doorway. The seadweller doesn’t look any less annoyed, but there’s beginning to be something a little more thoughtful about the way she’s looking at him. 

“If you’re looking for the Magister, he’s not here,” she says, and it takes Gamzee a moment a moment to place the title, one he can’t remember anyone but her using, but one that his ancestor hadn’t objected to, exactly. He’s still not quite sure how to interpret that, except that Director Blackice is possibly the only troll he’s ever met who approaches the Grand Highblood on anything even approaching equal terms. A proper title – one with eight letters – is a respectful form of address, but not necessarily a reverent one.

And he’s never seen the Highblood demand reverence of her. Fear or compliance, maybe. But not reverence, and she doesn’t seem to offer it.

“Are you addled on top of being a clown?” she asks, a little crossly, and Gamzee realizes that yes, he’s still standing in the doorway.

He gives a sheepish kind of half-shrug. “Just a tiny fucking bit, maybe,” he says. “I ain’t after his Levity, though? Just wanted to see a true honest fenestration, what all with...”

“With the approach to the _Condescension_ coming up,” she finishes, when he trails off. 

“I can come back later,” Gamzee says, quickly.

Blackice chuckles – low, deep in her throat, almost swallowing the laugh. It makes her gill-flaps twitch, just a bit, behind the high collar of her jacket. “I won’t bite, boy,” she says. “But truly. You’re letting in a draft. Close the door.”

“Oh,” Gamzee says, feeling a little stupid, although he hadn’t noticed any draft. Or maybe feeling a little stupid _because_ he hadn’t noticed any draft. He steps inside, though, and the door slides automatically shut behind him. He tries to tell himself that it doesn’t make him feel trapped.

Blackice turns back to the gently curving transparent bulkhead, silhouetted against the sparse starfield; her horns are gentle arcs with tips that nearly meet behind her head, and from this perspective give the distinct impression of a halo. Gamzee tries to ignore the faint shiver that runs through his shoulders and down his back, and moves to the other end of the stretch of window.

The Battleship Condescension is near enough to clearly make out the shape of it, but still as small and far off in the view from the deck as it had been in the camera footage. It seems more a bit more immediate from here, though, for all of its distance, and Gamzee has stepped forward to rest a hand gently against the surface of the window before he realizes that Blackice is watching him with vague interest.

“I really _can_ be all fucking off if I’m interrupting you up in here,” he says, starting to feel a little annoyed himself; he doesn’t particularly enjoy being dismissed and ignored by his elders, but at least if he’s being yelled at or chased off he knows what he’s doing wrong. This is starting to feel like he’s being left to dig himself deeper, and Gamzee is pretty sure that given the opportunity he’s capable of digging himself straight down to the bedrock.

She chuckles, and shakes her head, and looks away. Gamzee scowls to himself as he looks out at the empire’s flagship. He’s seen about as much of it as he can from here, but when the adult seems to be making some kind of a point of _not_ telling him to get lost, it seems like giving up to just turn around and leave so quickly.

A red speck moves slowly into view from the edge of the window; another ship, approaching on a different heading? If so, it’s too small or too far off to make it out properly, and Gamzee doesn’t think he quite wants to draw further attention to himself by pointing it out to his companion.

Eventually, Blackice speaks again.

“How old _are_ you, boy?” she asks, almost idly.

Gamzee blinks at her. “The fuck?”

“How old? I don’t think I was ever told. But you’re in the novice’s uniform, yet, and you clearly haven’t taken a name or Vitaldye would be using it on you,” she elaborates. “This sweep’s ascension, then, or last’s?”

“This sweep’s,” he says, still not sure whether this is simple curiosity or if there’s something deeper going on that he ought to be wary of. “I got eight sweeps all lined out behind me. Near nine, now, I guess.”

The seadweller shakes her head slightly. “She _must_ be in a foul temper, then. Never cares about landdwellers this young.”

There’s suddenly a hard lump of worry in Gamzee’s throat, and a very faint thrum of involuntary ‘voodoo between his horns; he clamps down on that, hard, and Blackice doesn’t give any sign she’s noticed. His reflexive nerves are beneath her concern, or maybe just too thin a thread of psychic attack to breach an adult seadweller’s defenses.

“That’s at being a reference to the Condesce?” he asks.

“Mmm,” is the noncommittal response – not a denial, though. 

He waits a long moment in the hopes that she’ll elaborate, but then, why should she? She’d actually bet against his continued survival after their first encounter. Even if at low enough stakes that there’s no way the wager had been anything other than a half-joking comment in passing, she clearly doesn’t think him worth enough to waste breath and advice on, and honestly – he doesn’t blame her. He still wishes he knew why his Ancestor feels otherwise, if it’s anything other than whim and vanity on the Highblood’s part.

And in the end, Blackice doesn’t have anything more to say on the subject; without another word, she turns and leaves, leaves Gamzee alone with the vastness of space and the small red shape of the empress’s ship. He watches it for a long moment, out of a mix of idle curiosity and a complete lack of desire to run into Blackice in the corridor outside.

He thinks he glimpses the fleck of red that might be another ship again, but when he tries to track it, it’s too dim, too small for his eyes to want to focus on properly. Or maybe it’s just that it seems like there should be someone else out here. If that’s the case, he’s not going to conjure them into being by staring at an empty space.

 

A day and a half later, they’re docking at the Battleship Condescension.

Gamzee rather thinks the cruiser’s airlock isn’t really _meant_ to hold five grown trolls at the same time – and he’s counting himself in that number, if he’s not yet got the faintest idea what he’s doing with himself or how to deal with adults, he’s still nearly of a height with Blackice and taller than one of her attendants. Of course, the Grand Highblood takes up at least two people’s worth of space, and as far as Gamzee can tell, his ancestor’s making absolutely not effort to accommodate anyone else present. 

The tealblood who Gamzee is _mostly_ sure is Blackice’s bodyguard – although she’s never actually been introduced to him as such – does not seem particularly happy about the way the elder indigo takes up far more than his fair share of space, but she doesn’t express it except with a fleeting grimace when Gamzee accidentally makes eye contact. He responds with a quick, lopsided grin, and despite the crowded space he has to wonder why his ancestor _doesn’t_ travel with more attendant personnel than just an untrained kid descendant. Had his ancestor been serious, when he’d implied that he doesn’t expect anyone he brings to the Battleship Condescension to return alive?

On the other hand, it’s not like he’s seen much in the way of personal staff, back at the barracks-carrier; plenty of trolls who report to the Highblood, but now that he thinks of it, relatively few who seem to work directly with him on a regular basis. Maybe he just doesn’t have any staff he depends on enough that it makes sense to tear them away from other duties for weeks on end.

That’s probably it, Gamzee tells himself, as the intership seal engages and the airlock door opens. His ears ring uncomfortably and then equalize as the atmospheric pressure adjusts; the air inside the battleship is warmer and damper than in the cruiser. It might be enjoyable, if Gamzee wasn’t so preoccupied with hoping that there’s no sinister implication to his ancestor’s independence.

But the Grand Highblood is already pushing through into the corridors of the larger ship, and Gamzee hurries to stay close on his heels. At the first branching hallway, Blackice pauses, tosses off a salute that’s sloppy enough to be borderline mocking, and the Highblood grins at her.

“My turnoff,” she says, a bit of explanation that is probably entirely unnecessary; Gamzee figures that probably everyone else present understands what’s going on better than he does, and he could figure out _that_ bit. “Try not to accidentally challenge her for anything you can’t take back. At least not when I’m not present to watch.”

“No promises,” the Grand Highblood replies, and there’s just enough of a laugh in his voice that Gamzee can almost convince himself that it’s a joke.

Blackice rolls her eyes, and sweeps off down one fork of the corridor; the Highblood looks after her for a moment, then turns in the other direction. He doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to where Gamzee is or what he’s doing. The younger troll hurries to keep up anyway, uncomfortable in the memory of what happened last time he’d gotten separated from his Ancestor on an unfamiliar ship.

He’s fully aware that he’s not going to end up in the same situation, here, in the stronghold of the Condesce herself. It’s not a great deal of comfort.

This ship, too, has a suite that’s apparently set aside for the Grand Highblood. At the end of what seems to be a private corridor, a broad set of doors made of some kind of vaguely translucent material that has to be sturdier than it looks and etched with the Capricorn sigil lead to a generously sized and, to Gamzee’s eyes at least, palatially appointed set of blocks arrayed around a central atrium. Everything he can see from the entrance is done up in elegant tile that looks as if it’s trying to be marble and wall-hangings in gauzy blood-colored fabrics. A reflecting pool in the middle of the atrium sends shivers of soft light across the walls and the high ceiling, the surface of the water stirred by the almost imperceptible vibrations of a ship in service.

“Surveillance in most of these,” the Highblood growls in warning, as the outer door closes behind Gamzee. “Not in the fucking ablution chamber or the respiteblocks, I fought damn hard for those. But the rest. Be aware.”

Gamzee frowns. “You ain’t never even kinda acted like I should be caring ‘bout cameras,” he points out. He thinks he’s spotted at least one of the surveillance devices already, but he’s not sure he’d trust that he’ll be able to find all of them. Most of the time, if he’s doing something that ought not be filmed, it’s in the company of someone who’s better at troubleshooting this kind of thing than he is.

“Yeah. Well.” The Highblood shrugs. “These ones aren’t mine.”

Oh.

“You take one of those,” the older troll continues, gesturing toward the a couple of doors, set into recessed archways. “Recuperacoon controls are in the panel by the door.”

It takes a moment for Gamzee to grasp the implication, to remember the appropriate schoolfeeding and apply it to his own situation; planetbound kids might be left to mix slime components with whatever degree of precision they’re capable of, but in most cases, the recuperacoons of a ship’s quarters are automated, controlled via the ship’s computer network. In training wings and troop transports, they’re usually centrally controlled – there’s no real reason to give individual overrides to the very young and the lowblooded. It’s how it works back home, how his sopor regimen has been out of his hands all this time.

But highblooded adults are ceded greater freedoms, and apparently on the Battleship Condescension, at least, that includes giving over the cocoon controls to whatever personal staff or attendants the Grand Highblood chooses to bring with him. 

“I’m setting for my own self?” he asks, as the realization catches up with him.

“You gonna do something really fucking dumb with it?” his ancestor asks, mildly, the kind of mildness that’s more alarming than his usual intensity.

He could. He could do something _really_ fucking dumb with this power, and he’d never make it back to see anyone he knows or cares about again, because he doesn’t have any illusions that his ancestor wouldn’t cull him to avoid being embarrassed in front of the empress. A few perigees ago, he might have done it anyway.

Now... he still wants to, badly. But sopor slime requires more processing to be any real good to him than just scooping it from the recuperacoon, and he’s firmer now, in thinking that maybe a few hours mediocre high won’t be worth immediate death, and he shakes his head slowly. “No sir. Figure I won’t.”

The Highblood grins, jagged teeth against jagged paint, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Exactly. Scram, kid. Get unpacked. There’s a fucker you ought to meet, after.”

Gamzee’s not at all sure whether he wants to meet anyone just now; Gamzee’s not at all sure he wants to meet anyone his ancestor wants him to meet, ever, period. This whole expedition is centered around him meeting someone that _neither_ of them want him to meet, not yet, not like this, maybe not ever, and he doesn’t really see why they need to add other introductions on top of that. But it’s not like he’s got a lot of room to argue, so he ducks off into one of the indicated respiteblocks without much caring which one.

It’s larger and better appointed than the one he shares with Sephar back home, but he’s in no mood to enjoy it as he picks some of his things out of his sylladex – he manages, at least, to avoid launching anything that might break or leave a stain into a wall. That would be a small victory if he was in any mood to celebrate victories. The door doesn’t have a lock, but he’s not sure he cares. At least it has a door. He’s made do with less in the past.

The control panel is by the door, as the Highblood had indicated it would be, and he miserably hunts through the menus until he finds the slime settings and dials the sopor concentration back to fifty percent. After a moment’s thought, he nudges the setting for the curative components a little in the other direction. Time spent around his ancestor tends to produce more than its fair share of cuts and bruises, and it’s not like he’s been told not to do anything about _that_.

After he’s done with that, he pauses briefly at the mirrored vanity to make sure his paint is in order – it is, of course, but it’s an excuse to dally a moment later, one that no one associated with the circus is going to begrudge him. There’s only so long he can draw that out, though, and eventually he sighs, and draws back from his reflection, and heads out to see what his ancestor wants to put him through next.

The Grand Highblood isn’t waiting in the atrium; as Gamzee skirts the reflecting pool, he kind of hopes that something has come up and his ancestor has been called off elsewhere, and whatever this introduction is, it will have to wait until later. No such luck, as it turns out. He pokes his head into one of the blocks and finds an ablution chamber, pulls back to move on and finds the Highblood watching him from one of the doors opposite and smirking slightly.

“Get your ass over here, kid.”

Gamzee hurries to get his ass over there, and finds a block that doesn’t seem quite sure whether it’s an entertaining block or an audience chamber or an adminsiblock – hints of the Grand Highblood’s adminishblock back at the other ship, by way of someone who thoroughly disapproves of the “late planetary warlord” aesthetic, maybe. The older troll all but sprawls in a chair that’s built to his scale but none the less seems built too delicately to hold his weight properly, and reaches over to hit a couple of keys on... some kind of interface, Gamzee can’t tell what it is exactly, from where he stands awkwardly at the entrance to the room.

Quickly – quickly enough that it’s clearly something he knows well from memory, quickly enough that he’s more than half done by the time Gamzee starts wondering if it might be something he wants to remember later himself – the Highblood recites into the console, “Condescension central override Capricorn prime dash Gemini prime psi dash one zero two five six one two four one three dash beta.”

Then he flourishes a rude gesture at a particularly poorly disguised surveillance camera, and an artificial-sounding static hiss of laughter issues from apparently nowhere, making Gamzee just about jump out of his skin.

“What the hell are you doing here?” asks a voice, the same voice from the same indistinguishable source as the laughter, and Gamzee looks around almost desperately, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. “Oh damn, you didn’t brief the wiggler, did you? He’s gonna give himself whiplash, man.”

“He’ll be _fine_ ,” the Highblood says dismissively, although Gamzee is not at all certain he’s even in the same postal code as “fine.” “I ain’t interrupting anyfuckingthing important, yeah?”

“Nothing I need to spend more than about twenty percent of my attention on,” the voice replies. “Twenty-two percent, tops.”

“Perfect,” the Grand Highblood says, and then turns his attention back to Gamzee. “Mirth’s sake, kid, quit acting like you’re fucking haunted. It’s the Helmsman. He’s – what’s the dumbass term? He’s piggybacking on the cameras and the intercoms.”

When it’s put like that, Gamzee feels kind of silly for not figuring it out. He looks back to the camera, and raises a hand in a sheepish little wave.

The Helmsman snickers again. “Oh, he’s adorable. You think she’s gonna let you keep this one?”

“Would you not _try_ and freak him the fuck out?” the Grand Highblood groans. “He’s a twitchy fuck already.”

“Most of your juniors are,” the Helmsman replies, and although the voice is – Gamzee is mostly certain – computerized, he could swear he can _hear_ the shrug that accompanies the words.

Gamzee scowls and tries to look a little less jumpy, but he’s not at all sure how to go about doing that and anyway the awareness of being watched, of carrying on an interaction that doesn’t quite manage to be either immediate or remote, isn’t doing much for his nerves. The Highblood might scold him for acting haunted, but how much difference is there, really, between a ghost and the practically disembodied consciousness of the troll at the center of the ship’s engines? 

“What’s your name, kiddo?” the Helmsman asks, neatly sabotaging Gamzee’s half-formed plan of fading into the background until his elders forget he’s there and let him leave. “The big guy’s gonna be too much of a dick to introduce you properly.”

“Gamzee Makara,” he says. “Ain’t got any motherfucking proper title to get referred at by him yet.”

The Highblood makes a sound that isn’t quite amused. “Just think how motherfucking accomplished you’ll feel when you get there,” he says.

Gamzee thinks he’d rather feel like he knows for sure his ancestor knows the name he’s got _now_ , but he doesn’t much think the Grand Highblood is going to react well to being told that, so he just kind of shrugs. “Sure,” he says. “I – look, sir, can I be getting off? Didn’t get a whole fucking lot of the schoolfeeding done on the trip over.”

For a moment, his ancestor’s hard to read; displeased, maybe, although whether by the request or by having Gamzee underfoot or because he expected this introduction to go other than it is, Gamzee isn’t able to guess. Finally, though, the Grand Highblood sighs, and gives an exaggerated shooing motion toward the door. “Get on that, then. Don’t wander off.”

“Nossir,” Gamzee says quickly, and then to the camera, “Fucking fine pleasure to meet you,” and he ducks out of the block before the Highblood changes his mind.

Not off to his own borrowed respiteblock, though; the neglected essay is real, but the desire to actually _work_ on the essay at the moment was a ruse. He doesn’t really believe that his ancestor drew the Helmsman’s attention just to startle him; the tone between the two adults had been too familiar. And while he has no desire to be caught in the middle of that conversation, he’s curious.

There isn’t actually a door between the suite’s entertaining block and the central atrium, just an open archway, and the Highblood isn’t a quiet man. Gamzee ducks into another recessed arch – this one without a door opening at all, just a decorative niche to lend symmetry to the space – careful to stay out of any possible line of sight from the other block, and strains to listen.

“...hear we lost another of your line from this cohort,” the Highblood is saying – not particularly sympathetically, but not gloating either. Just a piece of information.

“Damn,” the Helmsman hisses.

“Well, we lose those overcharged bastards more often than not. I still ain’t sure how you were so stable.”

A moment of silence – Gamzee almost thinks he must have missed the reply, or the Helmsman chose not to answer – and then a very pointed, “I had _good friends_.”

“ _Careful,_ ” the Highblood growls.

“Or what. You gonna go tell the bitch you’re abusing your override again?”

Another long pause. Gamzee’s almost figured the discussion is over, is starting to move toward his own block before he can be discovered, when the Grand Highblood speaks up again.

“ _Any fucking way_ , I’m more concerned about how we got one of _her_ brats _completely_ unaccounted for. No fucking writ of challenge, no sightings, no reports of anything wasting her.”

“...that would explain why she’s so sore about you having yours in hand. Not that she’s ever happy about that...”

There might be more, but Gamzee’s a little spooked now by the awareness of how easy it would be to get caught. He’s not exactly keen to listen to speculation about his own survival, either, and it seems that’s where the conversation is turning. So he slips away, back to his own block and a too-quiet stretch of empty time.

Well, he does have that essay to write. Maybe he’ll poke at that some more. Or the quarrelkenning exercises. Maybe if he opens up the husktop and stares at it long enough something productive will happen.

 

Later – several hours later, when the Highblood’s gone off to attend to something else, and Gamzee has been left behind with a stern warning to stay put – he’s moved back out to the atrium of the suite, where he’s fucking around with what is in theory juggling practice but in practice is, well, fucking around. Still, with the lightweight clubs, he’s up to five in the air at the same time, and he’s feeling pretty good about that.

The actual exercise is supposed to be moving those clubs from “in the air” to “target throwing,” but he can’t quite get the transfer right.

And he completely fails to make _any_ of the catches when he’s startled out of his skin by that same directionless, computerized voice. “Heard anything interesting, earlier?”

The clubs scatter; three of them fall directly into the reflecting pool. Gamzee half-stumbles, somehow manages to catch himself before _he_ ends up head-first in the pool as well. “The _fuck_ , motherfucker,” he gasps, trying to catch his breath. The initial surprise gives way to a rush of embarrassment, which just as quickly cedes ground to fear; he’d thought he’d been careful in his eavesdropping. Lacking any other defense, he tries playing dumb. “What all am I supposed to have been laying hear-ducts on?”

The Helmsman laughs. “Enough of the conversation to know that the heiress is still missing,” he says, matter of factly.

“Weren’t no untoward motherfucking motivations on my part!” Gamzee objects. He turns slightly, feeling uncomfortably ambushed, although he’s not sure what he’s trying to to towards, or away from. Having no physical target for confrontation is a supremely uncomfortable experience. There’s no one to menace; somewhere on the ship, theoretically, there’s a troll behind the words – or what’s left of a troll – but Gamzee hasn’t enough of an idea where to even begin to try to target him with chucklevoodoo.

“Relax, relax,” the Helmsman chides. “I’m not going to tell anyone you were listening. Just wanted you to know _I_ knew.” His voice skips slightly on the stressed pronoun.

Relaxing is really not in the cards at the moment, but slowly Gamzee starts to catch his breath, to replace panic with wariness. “No other motherfucker got any knowledge on the being of it? At all?”

“...Damn, you can’t half talk around a thing, can you? No, trust me, if the grouchy-hardass knew, we’d both know already. And I’m already looping the security recordings whenever I’m talking to anyone in here. Might be a good thing for you I am, you know. I wasn’t exactly paying attention at the time but I’d put caegers on it that the big guy warned you this place was surveilled.”

Gamzee nods, slowly. “Sure he did.”

“Your eavesdropping technique could use some work, is all I’m saying,” the Helmsman continues. “You have no idea how many suckers I’ve seen get busted because they only thought to hide that they were listening from the person they were spying on.”

With the initial shock wearing off, enough of Gamzee’s panic has subsided for it to give way to that particular mix of annoyance and curiosity that leaves him feeling vaguely put out that he doesn’t _already_ know what’s going on around him. Less inquisitive than defensive. It’s not something he enjoys, confusion without wonder.

“What the actual motherfuck’s it to you if I get my own ass caught?” he demands. “Seems you already figured I ain’t got no expectation of life expectancy anyway.”

This elicits another peal of artificial laughter. “Gamzee, kiddo – can I call you Gamzee? – that was me giving the big guy a hard time. Mostly, I mean. Herself is a moody bitch, but she knows better than to alienate him for no reason. You don’t give her a reason to waste you and you’ll get out without any permanent damage.”

That makes some sense; it doesn’t really explain why everyone _else_ seems to think he’s a dead troll walking, but on the other hand, it’s not like it’s _new_ for people to assume the worst of his chances. Including himself, sometimes. Fuck, it’s more or less how he ended up in this whole imperial mess in the first place, isn’t it? Figuring he was too doomed to try and dodge it.

“So you just up and figured you’d freak me from under my horns to tell me you ain’t telling no one nothing,” he says after a long pause, not quite sure whether it’s a question. The next bit definitely is, though. “The fuck you ain’t telling the GH for then? You and him seemed pretty fucking friendly-like.”

“Is that what you youngsters are calling him behind his back now? Gee-Aich? I like that,” the Helmsman laughs. “Nah, though. There aren’t a lot of people who talk to me, and he’s better company than the bitch in chief. Worse at remembering to turn me off afterward, too. Doesn’t mean he’s my _friend_.”

“And that’s at making _me_?” Gamzee asks.

“New blood that clearly doesn’t mind bending the truth around him a little? The old asshole could stand to be undermined every so often,” the Helmsman says. “...Damn, I miss being able to shrug. Shrugging is a good gesture.”

Despite himself, Gamzee chuckles a little, and he rolls his shoulders slightly – partly a shrug, partly a discomfited, defensive gesture. He’s still not entirely sure where he’s supposed to be looking, how he’s supposed to address a listener who has no physical presence.

“Smartass,” the Helmsman chides.

“Usually fuckers look for a word at me, it’s ‘dumbass,’” Gamzee points out. “Imma take that as a complement.”

“Fair.”

“You really ain’t gonna tell anyfucker I was getting an overhear?” Gamzee asks after a moment; the Helmsman’s irreverence is encouraging and a little contagious, but if the psionic has any inclination toward loyalty to the Highblood – and Gamzee’s not entirely sure he buys that there isn’t some genuine camaraderie there – then Gamzee’s still in a world of trouble.

“Really. My desire to make life easier for ol’ clownpants extends exactly as far as it makes _my_ life easier, and not a step further,” is the reply, suddenly more serious than Gamzee has heard the computerized voice yet. “Not even that far, really. I can put up with some bullshit if it means throwing a wrench in high command’s gears for a while.”

Gamzee’s still not totally convinced – if nothing else, he’s pretty well aware of how very much at odds subversive elements can be with each other as well as with the empire itself. A lack of sympathy toward the Grand Highblood does not necessarily translate to being the younger clown’s ally.

But on the other hand, there’s not a lot he can do about it one way or the other – what’s he going to do, go to his ancestor and come clean about listening in, just so he can explain why he feels vaguely threatened by the Helmsman? Hardly. And as Gamzee’s secrets go, this is a fairly minor one for a third party to hold.

“...shit,” the Helmsman says suddenly. “Just got a Capricorn ping off the security panel at the end of the hall, he’s on his way back.”

“ _Motherfuck_ ,” Gamzee agrees. “Thanks, brother.”

“Don’t mention it,” is the reply, and, “Stay safe, Gamzee.”

Silence falls – no doubt the Helmsman is still listening and watching, but he says nothing further – and Gamzee casts about for his dropped juggling clubs.

When the Highblood blusters his way into the suite, Gamzee’s stretched out at the edge of the reflecting pool, groping shoulder-deep for one of the clubs; he’s already retrieved one of the submerged juggling props, but this one’s proving trickier, and the third has rolled out near the middle of the pool and Gamzee’s honestly doesn’t think he’s going to be able to get it without actually getting in the water. It’s perfectly pleasant water – somewhat below a highblood’s body temperature but not _cold_ , clear, saltwater – but it’s still a hassle. At least it’s enough of a hassle to distract him from his nerves over his conversation with the Helmsman for a while.

“The fuck are you even doing?” the Grand Highblood asks, after watching for a moment.

Gamzee’s questing fingers finally close around the neck of the club, and he pulls himself up onto his knees. “Dropped my shit,” he says by way of explanation.

The Highblood sighs, already heading toward his own respiteblock. “This is going to be a fucking long week,” he mutters.

“Sir?”

“Condesce ain’t even holding audiences for another four or five days,” the adult says over his shoulder. “I was fucking hoping it’d be sooner, but _apparently_ she wants a fucking production of it, and there’s some other fucking dignitaries what aren’t even getting in until _tomorrow_ at the earliest, and you damn well can’t hurry seadwellers.”

Hurry up and wait, then. His ancestor doesn’t seem keen to elaborate further, if the way he slams the door of the suite’s master respiteblock behind him is any indication. Gamzee waits a moment, just in case there _is_ anything further forthcoming, and then sighs, and starts unlacing his boots. That last club isn’t going to retrieve itself, after all.


	31. Antisocial Weirdos

The next evening, Gamzee’s just finishing up applying his face when a knock sounds at his respiteblock door, and he looks up to find the door already open and his Ancestor standing there waiting for him to notice. Given that _clearly_ the Grand Highblood doesn’t actually care whether Gamzee cares if he comes in or not, the younger troll cannot fathom why he bothered knocking, but it seems like one of those things he’s just going to have to file away under “irritating shit not worth calling out” for the moment.

“Breakfast’s here. Go let the porter in, will you?” the Grand Highblood says, when he sees he’s got Gamzee’s attention.

Gamzee blinks. “What?”

“Bastard can’t get past the checkpoint in the hall without someone opening it for them,” the Highblood says, not quite patiently. “Seems like _some_ gill-breathing fuckmonger decided to crank the security up to ‘ridiculous’ and I sure as hell ain’t going to go run errands because of it.”

Right. Because that’s what Gamzee’s for, up until such time as someone decides he’s not worth the air he’s breathing. He sighs, twisting the lids back onto his paint pots. “What I gotta be doing up in here?”

“Just go out and open the door at the end of the hall,” the Highblood growls. “And be quick about it.”

One part of Gamzee kind of wants to point out that the Highblood regularly seems to insist on doing exactly this kind of shit for himself, appearances be damned, and in fact yesterday’s dinner seems to have made it to their quarters without Gamzee’s help. That part, however, is easily drowned out by the part of him that is very much of the opinion that that dinner was rather too long ago now, and a little inconvenience is worth getting another meal as soon as possible.

“Aight,” he says, still fumbling with fastening his ruff at the back of his neck as he steps past the Highblood and heads for the door. He’s out into the hallway before he realizes that he’s still in his socks, boots left discarded by the side of the borrowed recuperacoon. Breifly, he considers going back, but it’s not like he’s going far, and the floor of the corridor is covered in a clean, thick carpet. On the balance, he’d rather go stocking-foot than explain to his ancestor what the holdup is.

The door at the end of the corridor opens easily from this side, and as Gamzee sticks his head out, a young ceruleanblooded woman, maybe five or six sweeps Gamzee’s senior and wearing livery in black and imperial red, does her level best to not look like she’s just been leaning against the wall. There’s something surprised and then vaguely calculating in her expression as she sizes him up, but she’s got the grace not to comment on... whatever it is that’s thrown her for a loop. His existence, maybe; the combination of his youth and the sign on his chest. If she’s not going to say shit, he’s not going to ask.

“Yeah?” he says, instead. “Heard at how you’ve got a delivery.”

“Right. Yes, sir,” she says, deftly extracting a covered tray from her sylladex, and while Gamzee’s orders had been to let her in, she seems perfectly happy to hand off her task to him and venture no further toward the Grand Highblood’s sanctum. Honestly, he can’t blame her. A troll of her age and hue working this sort of job, rather than a combat position or a more comfortable but less centrally connected role, must have some serious social and political aspirations, but the Highblood is not exactly the best target for currying favor.

Hell, if Gamzee had his choice, his ancestor wouldn’t be the troll he’d be following around. He’s not sure who _would_ be, but there’s got to be plenty of high-ranking adults in the fleet whose company would be less frustrating and painful.

So he takes the tray with a lopsided grin and a quick, “Thanks, motherfucker,” and she nods and heads off to... whatever her next task is.

Back at the suite, Gamzee struggles to get the door open far enough to get through without dropping or tilting the tray he’s carrying; he’d follow the courier’s example and stick it in his sylladex, but he’s not at all confident that he could get something this big in and out of his miracle modus without spilling it, either. As he props the door open with one foot – kind of regretting the choice not to go back for his boots, now – he’s aware of the Grand Highblood watching him with something between exasperation and amusement.

“Did you check it?” the Highblood asks, once Gamzee has managed to get inside without dropping anything.

“...Check it?” Gamzee repeats, suddenly lost again.

The older troll sighs. “You fucking took a covered tray from a troll you don’t know from the Demoness and brought it back without looking,” he says. “Typical.”

Gamzee manages to avoid objecting that he certainly _does_ know the courier from the Demoness, because he’s _mostly_ sure that that’s just a figure of speech and also he’s pretty damn sure it’d be a bad idea to explain that while he’s never personally met the Handmaid of Death, he knows trolls who have, including the Demoness’s own descendent – and there’s no way the cerulean courier is of the same bloodline as Aradia.

“Why the fuck wouldn’t it be all at what it’s to be being?” he asks instead, a little peevish.

His Ancestor shrugs, coming over and whisking off the lid of the tray; as far as Gamzee can tell it’s exactly what it’s supposed to be, several dishes of food which he can’t readily identify but which smell heavenly, a flask of something dark and effervescent with a couple of ceramic drinking vessels. To the side, several folded or rolled pieces of paper, smooth parchment and almost-translucent vellum, tied with gold cords or sealed with dollops of richly pigmented wax. The sight seems to mollify the Highblood a little, but he still growls, “Plenty of reasons. Malcontents in the nutritive blocks. Incompetence among the imperial pages. Her fucking Imperious fucking Condescension being a bitch as usual. Never think you can assume a covered plate _doesn’t_ contain a venomous animal or a bomb when you’re on some other fucker’s turf, kid.”

He plucks some kind of smallish pastry from the tray, along with the grandest-looking of the papers, and nods impatiently toward the entertaining block. “Well, we ain’t been assassinated yet. Might as well eat.”

This still seems a little paranoid to Gamzee, but then, he’s not the one who is – to Gamzee’s best knowledge – well over a thousand sweeps old. If the Grand Highblood wants to be a little paranoid, it’s probably his prerogative.

Gamzee sets the tray down on one of the low tables near the door of the entertaining block, and snags a couple of flaky pastries and a piece of what appears to be some variety of preserved fish before retreating with his prizes to sit, crosslegged, on one of the benches that line the walls of the space. He’s not certain what to make of the beverage and so decides to skip it, a choice that he feels somewhat vindicated in when the Grand Highblood decants some, takes a swig, and grimaces.

“Swear to the minstrels, she’s got no fucking sense of taste whatsoever. The fuck’s wrong with just using sugar?” he mutters. It doesn’t seem to be directed at Gamzee, who doesn’t have a clue what it’s supposed to mean anyway, other than that his ancestor does not find the drink palatable.

The Highblood rifles through the various papers as he eats, not being particularly careful about how he cracks open the wax seals or cuts the cords. As he reaches the bottom of the small pile, he chuckles, and picks up a black and silver card that looks ridiculously small in his hand.

“Looks like some bored fishwiggler decided to try and make calling cards a thing again,” he comments, and flicks the card across to Gamzee, who scrambles, trying and failing to catch it out of the air.

One side bears only a sign, drawn boldly in violet in the middle of the blank card; a rayed circle, with a dot in the middle. Not one he recognizes, but from the color and the Grand Highblood’s words, he has to assume it’s a seadweller bloodline.

The other side bears a graceful scrawl of writing in silver ink: _Lady Elfare Xandri, line of PharoS, reSpectfully aSkS the preSence of the Young MaSter Capricorn at a minor Soiree thiS morning at Seven_ , followed by what Gamzee has to assume is a location onboard the Battleship. He turns the card over again, examining both sides, before looking back to his ancestor in some confusion.

The Grand Highblood laughs. “It’s called an invitation, kid,” he says.

“I get my understanding on _that_ ,” Gamzee retorts with a scowl. “Do I just... fucking, like, turn up?”

“If she’s using her wriggling name she’s too young to be a threat you can’t fight back at,” the Highblood shrugs. “It’ll keep you outta _my_ hair for a few hours. And if I gotta deal with the fish, you might as well, too.”

Gamzee’s still not sure what he’s supposed to do in regards to accepting the invitation – does he just show up at the indicated time? Should he be trying to get in touch with this Elfare girl before hand? – but the Grand Highblood does not seem inclined to help him figure it out, and he’s a little leery of pushing the issue. After the last time he’d been off ship, he’s still a little surprised that he hasn’t just flat out been confined to quarters, and he doesn’t want to test just how far the Grand Highblood’s patience lasts before he changes his mind. 

There’s no contact information on the card other than the address; Gamzee supposes that he might be supposed to send a message back by page, but he’s not sure how he’d summon one or what the protocol might be for such a message. Probably just as well to just get there when he’s told and offer apologies if he fucked it up. There’s still the question of getting there on a strange ship, though... 

He tosses the card into his sylladex, scarfs the rest of his food, and lets himself out of the entertaining block. There’s a smaller leisureblock that opens off of the suite’s atrium, a closer, less dramatic space. One which the Highblood doesn’t seem to have any particular interest in using for the moment, but one which has not been pointed out to Gamzee as a space that _doesn’t_ have imperially-controlled cameras in it. He slips inside, and closes the door behind him, and clears his throat awkwardly; if this doesn’t work, he’s going to feel pretty dumb and possibly be in some trouble.

“Helmsman? You still up, brother?”

To his very great relief, there’s an immediate faint echo of a speaker somewhere turning on. “Sure am.”

“Bitchtits,” Gamzee sighs, and the Helmsman laughs.

“What’cha need, Gamzee? Probably better keep things brief while the big clown’s out in the other block.”

“Yeah, uh, how do I get to... wait a tick,” he says, and brings up his sylladex interface. He manages to snag the card on the third cycle through, which he figures is doing pretty good. “How do I get my ass over to Cabin Three-Three-Eighteen?”

“Where they’ve stashed the seadweller kids that got in this afternoon? That’s easy – out to the main thoroughfare, hang a left, keep going until you see signage for the three-threes,” the Helmsman replies. “There’s a more direct route, too, but it’s flooded.”

Gamzee shakes his head. “Nah, brother, dry air’s good enough for me,” he says. “Thanks.”

“No biggie,” the Helmsman says, and Gamzee waves at where he’s pretty sure the camera’s mounted as he heads back out to the greater part of the suite.

Halfway to his respiteblock, he reconsiders, and sneaks back into the entertaining block to grab another of the pastries from the breakfast tray. If the Grand Highblood notices – and Gamzee can’t really imagine that he _doesn’t_ – he ignores his descendant, which Gamzee figures is probably an encouraging sign as to his mood.

 

Although Gamzee had thought he’d given himself plenty of time to get there – in fact, had kind of assumed that he’d been starting out earlier than necessary, because he was starting to go a little stir-crazy after spending all night with nothing much to do – the route is more circuitous than he’d expected, and he’s actually a little late by the time he reaches his destination. The security is less of a problem than might have been expected, too; just a locked door that unlocks when he keys his sign into the pad next to it. 

He wonders briefly if he still ought to knock or something, but before he’s made up his mind to either do that or just go in, the door opens to reveal a seadweller girl – definitely a proper seadweller, with broad fluttering fins at each side of her face, and faint glitters of light in her curls that might be trapped beads of water and might be some kind of jewelry, and thoracic gill-slits clearly visible through the dramatic cutouts at the sides of her dress. She fiddles with a pair of wire-frame glasses as she looks him over.

“You’re the Subjugglator boy?” she says, and then, before he can answer – although he’s not sure the question needs an answer, as for lack of anything more presentable to wear he’s still in his uniform – she goes on, “You’re late, you know. I was starting to wonder if you were coming.”

“Sorry, chica,” he says. From the arch of her brow, he thinks maybe she doesn’t think much of being addressed as such, but she doesn’t call him on it. Rather, she steps back, ushering him inside.

Gamzee has very little time to take in the space that he’s just entered – roughly the same layout as the Highblood’s suite, he thinks, except that he’s standing on a broad deck that runs halfway around the atrium, and below is not a reflecting pool but an entire flooded chamber – because the girl is already tapping at some kind of computer interface by the door. 

“Boys! The subjugglator’s here! Get your fins up here and say hi!” she calls into the grill of what might be an intercom of some kind, and there’s movement under the water in response, movement that makes Gamzee wonder very seriously if this was a bright idea after all. He takes a step back from the edge of the water as she continues, “I’m Elfare – I mean, I sent my card, you should know that much – and the boys are Otarin and - “

She’s cut off by the second boy before she can introduce him, but the introduction is completely unnecessary anyway.

“Holy fuckin’ shit, I was sure you weren’t gonna turn up,” Eridan Ampora interrupts, as he levers himself out of the water and into a sitting position at the edge of the deck, a motion that’s sudden and forceful enough to send rivulets flowing around Gamzee’s boots. 

“I’m starting to wonder if you have _any_ friends who aren’t landdwellers, Ampora,” comments the other seadweller boy – the stranger, Otarin, he’d been introduced as. He seems to have no intention of actually getting out of the water, although he’s propped his elbows on the tiles.

“You wanna fuckin’ start something?” Eridan snaps, but there doesn’t seem to be a lot of real hostility in it; for the moment, he’s preoccupied with fishing around in his sylladex until he comes up with his glasses.

“You thought _I_ wasn’t gonna be showing my own self?” Gamzee asks, shaking water from his boots and, in the process, trying to kind of casually take another step back from the water’s edge and the gently bickering seadwellers. “Where the fuck even have you been at?”

Eridan looks up at him, finishes adjusting the set of his glasses, and arches an eyebrow. “In the _water_ , Gam,” he replies, slowly, as if to a very small wiggler or – well, ok, or to a troll stoned out of his cranial hull.

Admittedly, it isn’t as if Gamzee is exactly having the easiest time following along here, and it’s not helping his mood any. “What, for at a whole quarter sweep though? Ain’t nobody been able to even start as at getting a hold of you, brother.”

“You _had_ noticed I was a seadweller, hadn’t you?” Eridan drawls. “Anyway, I was busy. Kinda assumed the rest a’ you would be, too.”

Elfare circles around behind Gamzee, startling him a bit as she suddenly pops up in his peripheral vision. She takes a seat at the edge of the water as well, not seeming to care that her skirt trails in the pool as she dangles her feet into the water, and tilts her head curiously at Eridan. “I thought for certain you were joking when you said you knew the Grand Highblood’s scion,” she comments. “I mean, I know you’ve been stationed on the Barracks-Transport Levity, but...”

“Why the hell would I lie about knowin’ this piece a’ jetsam?” Eridan snorts.

Suddenly there’s three pairs of eyes, not quite saturated with violet, but well on their way, fixed on Gamzee with a vaguely calculating kind of curiosity – more calculating on Eridan’s part, more curious on the part of the other two – and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t like it but he can’t quite formulate an objection just yet. After a long beat, it’s Otarin who speaks up. “He doesn’t seem, like, _super_ awful.”

Gamzee chuckles awkwardly. “Nah, motherfucker, I fucking cleaned up _hard_ when I got up in this bitch,” he says. “Can’t get so much irritation on at a brother getting an impression of what I once got at being, I guess.”

“You ever stop leavin’ all your shit lyin’ all over the place, then?” Eridan asks, rolling his eyes.

Honestly, Gamzee’s not entirely sure whether to interpret that as implied acknowledgment that he would naturally have _had_ to clean up the rest of his act, or if Eridan really is genuinely judging him more harshly for the littering than for the sopor. He’s not in any hurry to ask for clarification in front of a couple of trolls who don’t know his history, though. And anyway, now that Eridan raises the question, he’s suddenly worrying that he _has_ left some of his shit lying around his respiteblock back home, and that if he has, he’s going to get back to find that Sephar has – thrown it out, or tossed it into his recuperacoon, or something. He’s not going to assume he can anticipate how petty she’s capable of being.

Eridan doesn’t seem to require an answer, though; he’s already turning back to the seadweller girl with a sigh. “Really, Elf, what gives? Did you seriously invite him out just to call my bluff?”

“What? No!” Elfare objects, fins flaring – like Sephar does when she’s angry or defensive, but showier, with the full-sized fins. “I mean, maybe a little. It was Otarin’s idea, really.”

“I can’t believe you’d try to turn this around on me like that,” the other boy objects, pushing off from the edge of the deck and bobbing gently in the water. “I just said if a landdweller’s getting presented we ought to meet him.”

“And that we oughtn’t – hey! Where are you going?” Elfare objects as he ducks under the water and flips away toward one of the submerged doors. She boosts herself to her feet and dives in one smooth motion, barely raising any splash as she enters the water.

Eridan sighs, as the ripples of Elfare’s dive spread and fade. “I’m like eighty percent sure they’re anglin’ for a quadrant,” he says. “Can’t for the life of me figure out _which_ , though. Sit down, will ya? I’m gonna strain a gill lookin’ up at you.”

Gamzee doesn’t sit; he rocks back and forth on his heels a little, not sure he’s comfortable being here, for all of the effort it took him to get here, not sure what to make of Eridan’s nonchalance.

“For gl’b’s sake, no one’s gonna drag you under,” the seadweller adds peevishly. “Elf’s way too wrapped up in her own cleverness and Ota’s a dick, but they ain’t out to get you.”

“And you, motherfucker?” Gamzee asks, finally finding his voice again.

Eridan rolls his eyes. “Look, I know friendship an’ familiarity don’t actually mean a whole lot in the fuckin’ calculus a’ if _either_ of us will kill someone, Gam, but I’d kinda hope growin’ up ten miles a’ deserted coastline from each other would mean _something_.”

“Why’s at that? Not like nothing else you done with any motherfucker before conscription seems to matter much to you. Bro, we ain’t even been sure you’re breathing yet,” Gamzee says.

“Like I said. Busy,” Eridan grumbles.

“Like you motherfucking just got at your jaw on, so’s been the rest of us motherfuckers,” Gamzee retorts. “Finsister just _said_ you been up on the same ship as Terezi and Equibrother and me, and we found time to get looking each other up occasionally. We ain’t heard shit of you.”

Maybe that’s a little hypocritical of him, but hey, _he_ got his act together enough to make contact within a few perigees. 

Eridan’s fins dip slightly. “Don’t pretend like I was buddies with any a’ you lot on the Levity,” he says. “Give me a few sweeps to start buildin’ up some political capital an’ maybe I can make myself useful, but I’m not under any illusions that anyone left a’ the old gamin’ group actually wants my company. Not that you all got in the loop, anyway. I’m ok with that.”

He’s not certain, but Gamzee thinks he’s got enough of a handle on what Eridan is hinting at that he’s pretty sure that by “gaming group” the seadweller doesn’t just mean “flarpers.” He shrugs. “You might be all kinds of fucking surprised at what kind of miracle connections Tersis has got at her graspprongs, brother.”

There’s a little bit of startlement in the way Eridan straightens his back, narrows his eyes; the slightest bit of wariness that Gamzee can feel coming off of him if he’s paying attention to what his ‘voodoos are telling him and not just his eyes and ears.

“Vri?” the violet guesses. “Gam, it ain’t a big deal if Ter can talk to her, even if she went and got herself assigned on a different ship. If Vri wanted my attention _she_ knows how to get in touch with me.”

“Her sometimes,” Gamzee says, “but she ain’t the one pitch-pining and keeps making a point at pointing out no one’s heard from your aquatic ass yet, though.”

“You’re shitting me,” Eridan accuses.

“Bro, I ain’t the one sore ‘cause I don’t get a chance to watch you make your ownself look hells of dumb,” Gamzee says. “Was pretty fucking chill with that state of events, really.”

The seadweller scrambles to his feet, less graceful out of the water but still fast and surefooted, and closes the space between the two of them so rapidly that Gamzee takes a step back in surprise. Eridan’s about a head shorter than him, but the difference is less than it had been last time they were face-to-face, and the sudden movement startles the clown badly enough that he reflexively reaches for his strife specibus. Eridan is sharper, more dangerous, a young man in meticulously tailored clothing that sheds the water like a quackbeast’s back, not a kid in heavy, damp sweater and scarf – but Gamzee is loose-limbed and alert, and he finds that in the moment of confrontation he’s _not_ so very frightened of seadwellers anymore.

“You’re seriously tellin’ me that you’ve _talked_ to Sol? He’s ok?” Eridan hisses. It takes Gamzee a long moment to realize that while he’s certainly being unnecessarily confrontational, he’s not actually offering violence. Wrong kind of nervousness radiating off of him.

Even with that realization, though, Gamzee doesn’t stow the club that has dropped into his hand; the weight is reassuring, and maybe it’s not a terrible thing for this to _look_ more contentious than it is.

“Careful, brother,” he growls in warning, keeping his voice low. “You and me, we be tripping way too near at shit we can’t take back if we get ourselves overheard already. But yeah. Ain’t had like a fucking pump-to-pump at him, I got other motherfuckers to be talking at. But I heard from him.”

“And -” Eridan presses on, although – because of his own judgment, or Gamzee’s warning – he doesn’t voice the full question. Gamzee doesn’t really know how to read lips, but still, it’s not hard to anticipate what Eridan is mouthing: one syllable, teeth grazing lip at both start and finish. _Fef?_

“Accounted all for, far as I got my knowledge,” he says with a shrug. “Everyfuckingbody out our circle but the bright blood-drinker sister is. And you, down ‘til now.”

“Shit. Shit, good,” Eridan says, stepping back, and while there’s not a great deal of change in his bearing, there’s a whole ribbon of low, constant fear that’s been wound through him the whole time Gamzee’s been talking to him that just completely _evaporates_. Gamzee’s not sure he’d even have noticed if he hadn’t been trying to keep half a metaphorical eye on Eridan’s emotional state, but when he’s paying attention, it’s obvious.

“We chill?” Gamzee asks, cautious.

“As we ever were,” Eridan says, and Gamzee’s not entirely sure what that even means, but at least it doesn’t seem to mean Eridan’s about to flip out again, so he figures he’ll take it. The club slips back into its capcha card.

He glances out over the deep, rippling pool that takes up most of what should be the block’s floor space, and frowns. “Where even did those other motherfuckers get at?”

Eridan groans. “They’ll surface when Elf remembers she wants to play hostess, probably,” he says. “You don’t really need to stick around if you don’t want to, though. She’s just a kid too, you know, she’s not too dangerous to snub.”

“You trying at getting shut of me?” Gamzee asks.

“What? No,” Eridan says quickly. “I just thought, since we both know you got invited because Ota and Elf wanted to fuck with me?”

Gamzee shrugs. “Brother, trust in this motherfucker, it is still so far distant better than hanging around waiting for the GH to remember I’m there,” he says.

Eridan actually cracks a smile at that, and not an entirely unsympathetic one at that. “That bad?”

“You got no clue,” Gamzee sighs.

“Alright, fine, I hear ya,” Eridan says. “C’mon, the entertaining block’s dry an’ if those two are gonna be antisocial weirdos we might as well get first go at the hors d’oeuvres.”

Eridan turns and heads through one of the few doors that opens off the deck and not directly onto the water, and Gamzee takes one more glance at the pool before following along into a somewhat smaller version of the entertaining block back in the Highblood’s suite. 

There is indeed a modest spread laid out of what Gamzee supposes can probably be considered food – well, probably fairly fancy food at that, if one’s tastes run to seadweller cuisine. It certainly looks pretty, bright colors and small, even pieces. The issue – the source of his uncertainty – is that most of it is seafood, and almost none of it seems to be cooked. 

Gamzee is pretty sure he prefers his fish cooked. He doesn’t really feel like that sort of thing is too much to ask.

For his part, Eridan doesn’t seem at all put off, and in fact Gamzee’s pretty sure he sees the seadweller wrap up a few pieces in a napkin and slip them into his sylladex. When he sees Gamzee looking doubtfully at the food, he sighs, and says around a mouthful, “You got no idea what any a’ this is, do ya?”

“It gonna make so much difference if I _do_ know?” Gamzee asks.

“The dire krill’s practically the same thing as a land bug,” Eridan says, pointing out something arthropoidal and finger-sized. “ _An’_ those ones are poached, if you’re gonna be all landdweller-y about things needin’ to be cooked.”

Again, Gamzee doesn’t think that wanting his food cooked is such an unreasonable thing, but from Eridan’s tone he’s pretty sure that that’s not an argument he’s likely to win, with the seadweller in question or possibly with any seadweller. So he just shrugs again, and takes one of the indicated morsels. He’s still trying to figure out whether he likes it when the other two seadweller kids come in.

“...told you they’d be fine without us,” Otarin is saying. Elfare pouts, wringing her hair into a towel, which she quickly captchalogues.

“Sorry to leave you hanging,” she says, apparently ignoring her companion. “Didn’t mean to just disappear on you, not when I went and tried to organize the party in the first place...”

“It’s cool,” Eridan replies. “We needed to catch up a little.”

“Ain’t even near at being the worst a party’s fucked up ‘round me lately, anyway,” Gamzee adds.

Eridan looks at him sharply, something somewhere between “quizzical” and “disapproving” in his expression, but he doesn’t say anything, and Gamzee acknowledges the look with a slight tilt of his head but doesn’t volunteer an explanation. 

If Elfare notices the silent exchange, she gives no sign of it as she goes to fidget with a computer terminal; a stretch of what Gamzee had previously assumed to be blank wall flickers into a large display. “I’m going to put some music on,” she says. “Any requests?”

“The new Firesong album,” Otarin says quickly, and Eridan groans.

“How many flipperin’ times have you listened to that pop trash already?” he asks.

Otarin flops onto one of the low couches and folds his arms. “Obviously not enough. And it’s not trash, it’s some of her best work. Hey, you heard it yet?” he adds, looking over at Gamzee, who wonders briefly if he can shove enough food in his mouth quickly enough to avoid getting dragged into a debate that’s clearly been going on since well before he got there. He decides to his great disappointment that he probably can’t. 

“Don’t think I ain’t heard none of Firesong’s stuff,” he admits. “I don’t think? Name’s at being wicked familiar, but I don’t got any real know on what her music’s like.”

“Fine,” Elfare says, as she pokes few computer keys and a music video starts playing. “But not the whole album, ok? And just because he’s so tragically uncultured.”

“Hey,” Gamzee objects, but he doesn’t object very strenuously.

From there, the mood of the room kind of drifts into a companionable if not entirely casual kind of idle conversation, skipping haphazardly through what seems to be the collective music libraries of all three seadwellers, and Gamzee finds that he doesn’t really need to do much other than appear to be paying attention. Occasionally one of the others asks his opinion on something, but for the most part they don’t seem to actually care much about the substance of his answers. Which is probably a good thing, because Gamzee’s not at all sure his answers have much substance. But the music is good – even if Gamzee still can’t quite place why the cerulean singer’s name sounds so familiar, when her face and voice don’t spark any recognition – and as he’d said to Eridan earlier, the company’s still vastly preferable to that of his Ancestor.

Eventually, though, it becomes obvious that Elfare is trying to stifle a yawn. “Sorry, I was up really early this evening,” she says, and though it’s not actually a request to be excused, it still makes Gamzee feel a little stupid and a little guilty.

“What time’s at it getting to be though?” he asks, and Eridan pulls a smartphone from his sylladex and blinks at it.

“Almost ten. When the gl’b’d it get to be almost ten?” he says, sounding a little bewildered, and looks over to Otarin. “When’s the Quaestor due back?”

“Not sure,” the other seadweller admits. “Probably not too long, though.”

Gamzee nods, already pulling himself to his feet. “Aight, brothers, sis, I prob’ly ought to be getting my way back at drier parts.”

“Are you certain?” Elfare asks.

“Pretty certain,” he replies. “Got enough drama up in interaction with my own Ancestor, don’t want to be causing problems when whatfuckingever adults have got you lot stringing along get back in.”

Otarin scowls. “Wellbore’s perfectly reasonable,” he objects. “Really, you’re just going to assume that my mentor can’t function like a civilized troll around recruits?”

“He’s not assumin’ shit,” Eridan says, a little to Gamzee’s surprise. “Lay off. No one needs to hear about how you worship the water the Quaestor swims in. He ain’t here to hear you sucking up to him, you know.”

“I’m just saying, just because _he’s_ being mentored by a madman doesn’t mean everyone is,” Otarin says.

“And just because you seem to need acknowledgment from as many people as possible doesn’t mean everyone does,” Elfare sighs. She turns a smile on Gamzee. “I’m glad you could come.”

“I’ll walk you out, Gam,” Eridan offers, standing as well.

Gamzee doesn’t really think that’s necessary, but he doesn’t really care one way or the other and it seems like a waste of time and effort to go out of his way to alienate Eridan at this point, so he doesn’t object. “Sure, bro. Hey, and thanks at sending out for me, sister.”

Eridan rolls his eyes, and is not entirely subtle about ushering Gamzee out of the block.

“You did get the part where she invited you to mess with me,” Eridan grumbles, as the two of them step out into the corridor.

“Also got at an appreciation of the part where I had a good time,” Gamzee replies with a shrug. “Ain’t always everyone’s reactions to everything about you, bro.”

“Whatever.”

There’s a long, not entirely comfortable silence, and then Eridan adds, “Guess I’ll be seein’ you around, then.”

“For serious, though?” Gamzee asks, a little doubtfully.

The seadweller won’t meet his eyes. “I mean, I guess. Probably.”

It’s not the answer Gamzee had hoped for, but after a moment’s reflection, he figures it’s probably the best he could have expected. If Eridan wants to be like this – well, Gamzee can’t say he’s happy about it, and he thinks somehow the others won’t be either, but at least now they know the violetblood’s not _dead_ or something. That’s technically a step forward. Assuming Gamzee gets a chance to relay the message.

“Aight, well, if you get it changed up in your thinkpan, we’re all still at the same handles we ever was,” he says. “Later, motherfucker.”

The seadweller lets himself back into the half-submerged suite, and Gamzee is alone in the corridors of the Battleship Condescension.


	32. Enough Dumbassery to Go Around

Three days, three interminably empty and nerve wracking days, pass. 

Gamzee hears nothing further from Eridan – he hadn’t really _expected_ to, and it’s not like he was ever close friends with the seadweller, but he kind of feels like this might be one case where it would have been nice to have his expectations subverted. He tries once or twice to get the Helmsman’s attention, but the psionic is either unable to answer or uninterested, and Gamzee quickly stops trying for fear of who or what else might be paying attention.

He sees little of his ancestor either, for that matter; the Grand Highblood comes and goes and what seems to Gamzee to be odd hours, even by his own admittedly unreliable standards. Not that Gamzee spends a great deal of time trying to get the elder troll’s attention. The Highblood seems preoccupied, in none too good of humor, and Gamzee finds that even the numbing combination of boredom, loneliness, and ever-mounting trepidation seems like a better alternative to finding out exactly what it is that the chief subjugglator has on his mind in any detail.

At least with the lack of anything else to fill his time, Gamzee finds that there is an upward limit to how long he can procrastinate on his coursework. Admittedly, an upward limit that is probably somewhat higher than it should be, but an upward limit nonetheless.

And then the day of the audience arrives, and Gamzee’s honestly not sure where all that time has gone.

 

Breakfast has been delivered this morning, but Gamzee’s stomach is sour with nerves, and he slips back to his own respiteblock without eating. He can’t seem to get satisfied with his paint, either, for all that it’s the same design he’s carefully applied to his face every night for... well, not for his whole life, but well back into the part of his early life where memories come a little disjointed and disorganized with heavy habitual sopor use and make figuring exact dates or sequences difficult. But even if his own early chronology is difficult to parse, sheer muscle memory is enough to guide his application of his paint, and yet today the lines seem off, the edges shaky where they cross the scars, and he growls faintly with frustration as he reaches for a damp towel and scrubs his face clean and starts again for the third time.

This time, after putting down an even coat of the white paint, he draws the dark up to the edges of the scars but doesn’t go over them. He studies the result in the mirror for a long moment before sighing and carefully filling in the parallel lines again.

Maybe he’s just ill at ease in his own skin, his own paint at the moment. Gamzee can’t do anything about the skin – would feel almost like disrespect, even if he could – and so maybe it’s best not to mess around with the paint, either. If he can’t weather the Condesce’s attention as the clown he’s been for sweeps, he won’t fare better for changing his face. 

He caps the paint pots and tosses them into his sylladex, shakes out his hair, wonders if it’s about time to think about trimming it. Not this evening, but soon, maybe.

When he turns away from the mirror, he really has to wonder how long the Grand Highblood has been standing in the open door of the respiteblock. Long enough to have settled, leaning casually against the door frame; not long enough to betray any real sign of impatience, although the exact span of the elder troll’s patience can be hard to predict.

The Highblood has exchanged his already imposing usual clothing for an ensemble that’s... _bigger_ is the word Gamzee wants to use, although that’s not quite apt. But grander, more obviously armored, the skeletal motif starker and more overt. He’s idly braiding bits of purple stone and black pearl into his hair as he waits for his descendant's attention. Gamzee’s suddenly uncomfortably aware that while his own uniform is clean and neat, it’s still what he wears every day.

Apparently he’s not alone in that awareness, because the Grand Highblood slowly raises an eyebrow. “I’m going to fucking go out on a limb and assume that formal wear’s one of those things you inexplicably ain’t got to your name.”

Gamzee’s not entirely sure he’s ever _owned_ anything that can reasonably be considered “formal wear.” Maybe one or two things he’d managed to alchemize more or less entirely by accident during Sgrub, but certainly not anything that’s actually fit him in the past sweep. He shakes his head. “Nossir. Er, yes. That’s at being an accurate way around the situation.”

“Thought so,” the Highblood sighs, and pulls a bundle of cloth from his own sylladex and tosses it to Gamzee, who scrambles a little to catch it. “Had this made up. It ought to fit, you ain’t _too_ weird-shaped for a Capricorn.”

Gamzee’s not entirely sure whether that’s supposed to be an insult or not, and he doesn’t spend a great deal of time trying to figure it out. He carefully unfolds the bundle, finds a coat of black and indigo motley and a short cape in some kind of dark, soft fabric with silver trimming. The clothing looks new, for the most part; the clasp of the cape, heavy and silver and cast in the shape of his sign, looks very old. It’s not the _only_ appearance of the sigil of Capricorn in the clothing, but it’s definitely the most distinct, the most legible, the only one that seems meant to be read quickly by a casual viewer rather than a subtle inclusion in a decorative element.

“Motherfuck,” he breathes, holding up the jacket, trepidation momentarily taking second billing in favor of awe.

“We don’t have all fucking night. You going to put it on, or just fucking admire it all the way down to the bridge?” the Highblood asks, shaking Gamzee out of his reverie.

The younger troll hurries to pull the coat on over his usual uniform. He fumbles briefly with the cape, trying to figure out how it’s supposed to fasten and hang – over one shoulder, leaving the other arm unencumbered – then gives an experimental swing of his arms and grins to find his range of motion essentially unimpeded despite the rich fabric. “That’s some sick-ass ninja shit.”

The Highblood shrugs, and he sounds faintly impatient but also faintly amused as he answers, “Ought to, kid. The designer was a century and a half in the Subjugglators before he went off to spend more time fucking around with fabric. He knows his work.”

Gamzee blinks. “He went from subjugglation to _threads_?”

“You think everyone our color keeps doing the same thing for fucking centuries?” the Highblood snorts. “Fuck, you think your Kometes friend’s going to be satisfied at spending the rest of her life bashing heads, if she makes it through training? Fucking seriously, kid.”

Well, he can’t say he’s ever really thought of it in those terms, but it does seem kind of unlikely that Lazapi, given the choice, would make a long career of imperial enforcement. For a number of reasons, really. Of course, some of those reasons are things the Grand Highblood doesn’t and can’t know about, but even without knowing about her faith and politics, her temperament and interests are obvious enough. Gamzee shrugs. “Guess not.”

“Plus this way _I_ got an agent doing close-up work with a fucking considerable cross section of the empire’s seadwellers,” the Highblood adds, almost as if it’s an afterthought. “Not to mention being able to lean on him for a rush job once in a while. Like when a complete fucking idiot fails to anticipate he’d need something to wear to see the empress.”

Gamzee scowls – and maybe the days of dread anticipation of something _not_ his Ancestor’s doing have left him momentarily a little less nervous of the Highblood on the balance, because he’s not quite sure where he finds the nerve to reply, “Or when your ownself gets so up in telling a motherfucker how’s at he’s _probably_ gonna die that you ain’t give him any instruction on what he gotta be getting up into so as to not.”

The Grand Highblood’s expression darkens, unreadable but unpleasant behind his paint, and after a moment Gamzee loses his nerve and averts his eyes. He suspects that “sullen and frightened” is not the best mood to work up in preparation of meeting the empress, but damn him if he can manage anything else right now. He’s at least fairly certain that he’s got his own capabilities under enough control that he’s not leaking chucklevoodoo in his distress, for all that there’s a faint resonance in the roots of his horns that says it would be only too easy; that’s more than he could say a few perigees ago.

Then the moment passes, and the adult huffs a sigh that’s more than half a growl as he turns away. “We’re going in a few minutes. Be ready.”

_Ready_ seems impossibly far out of reach, but Gamzee figures he understands what his ancestor means.

 

The journey takes the better part of an hour, even at the punishingly ground-eating pace which a troll the size of the Grand Highblood can easily maintain indefinitely and which Gamzee can just about keep up with without rendering himself embarrassingly out of breath or disheveled in his finery. He’d suspect that the adult is intentionally seeking a longer route, except that the Highblood seems more impatient than avoidant, and anyway his own attempts at traveling through the ship had proved that there are very few truly direct passages accessible to landwellers. Still, this seems like more dim, opulently paneled corridor than one moderate-sized battleship really ought to boast.

Finally, they pause in an antechamber, a high-ceilinged block entirely bare except for a matched pair of what at first appear to be the same sort of reflecting pool as back in the Capricorn suite, except that when Gamzee glances into one, the bottom is not a subtle, intricate tiled pattern but a flooded shaft curving away out of sight. The block almost seems smaller than it is, dominated by a pair of doors cast in some near-black, polished metal and emblazoned with the curving tyrian lines of a sigil of Pisces that stands taller than Gamzee does. The familiarity of the sign is almost eerie in this context. Here, it is emphatically _not_ Feferi’s sign; here, it would be folly to suggest that the girl he knew as a child, counted perhaps as a friend, has any claim to brandish the imperial insignia or any other.

A few other trolls are already present, though Gamzee is abruptly aware that he and the Grand Highbloods are the only ones present without fins or gills; of the small knot of adult seadwellers, only Director Blackice looks up as the two indigos enter. She nods an abbreviated acknowledgment before turning to quietly say something to one of her companions, a vague-eyed woman whose long fingers are very nearly literally dripping with golden jewelry and lacquer. 

At the other side of the room, Eridan and the other seadweller kids are grouped around one of the pools. They, at least, make very little pretense of staring at the landdwellers – Elfare particularly, at least until Otarin grabs her by the wrist and hisses something that makes her bite her lip and flutter her fins anxiously. Even so, Gamzee rather thinks he’d prefer to go join them, spend a few minutes in company with people who are at least marginally his peers before whatever goes down goes down, and when his ancestor goes to loom over the seadweller adults, he hesitates only a moment before wandering over.

“ _That’s_ the Grand Highblood?” Elfare asks, still looking past Gamzee, who apparently is unobjectionable enough in comparison that he doesn’t rate an actual greeting.

“Obviously,” Eridan says, although it’s a bit less biting than might be expected.

“I heard he eats seadwellers,” Elfare continues.

Otarin scoffs, “That can’t possibly be true,” but he looks to Gamzee with obvious uncertainty.

Gamzee shrugs. “I ain’t never known him to, but fuck, I wouldn’t even put it all past him.”

“You’re kiddin’,” Eridan accuses.

“Brother, he gets _creative_ with corpses. And that’s _this_ motherfucker saying that,” Gamzee says. “No way I’m prepared to say he stops at what shit I’ve seen him get at.”

There’s just a beat too long of silence, in their little group, the indistinct rustling and rumbling of the adults’ hushed conversations momentarily dominating the antechamber, and then Otarin says in a tone that’s a little too bright and a little too brittle, “Elfare, your horn varnish is way crooked, did you bring the bottle with you?” 

Obviously grasping at the change of subject, the seadweller girl nods, and digs into her sylladex for a cosmetics bag as she asks, “Can you fix it for me? I had trouble getting the angle right.”

As the pair of them fuss with the stripe of silver she’s painted along the outer curve of each horn, Gamzee sidles a little closer to Eridan and says in an undertone, “Look, motherfucker, if I ain’t hauling my ass out of here alive, you have got to talk at Terezi and Equius and let them know what went down, right? If the Empress decides I’m to getting dead.”

Eridan scowls, but he also keeps his voice down as he replies. “You were just sayin’, _real_ casually, that the Grand Highblood’s probably a cannibal, and you’re scared a’ the Condesce?”

“Gee-Aich _likes_ me, fuck even knows why.”

A long beat, and then Eridan sighs, shoulders drooping a little under a cape that’s much better cut than the one he wore as a kid. “Sure, whatever,” he says. “I’ll try, anyway.”

That’s not entirely the answer Gamzee was looking for, but before he can press the issue, suddenly the Grand Highblood is stepping out of the little group of adults, and Eridan is making very little pretense out of turning to join the other two seadweller kids. Gamzee can’t blame the violet, but he also is pretty sure that he absolutely can’t get away with _also_ suddenly being deep in conversation with the others. Even if the Grand Highblood would respect that, which he certainly won’t, Gamzee’s pretty sure that the seadwellers would leave him out to dry. They’ve been friendly, but he’s under no illusions that he’s actually part of their group.

So he bites back a sigh and watches as his Ancestor crosses the antechamber. 

“Shit’s getting moving soon?” he asks; he doesn’t resist and hardly minds as the Highblood manhandles him, large heavy hands on Gamzee’s shoulders as he turns the younger troll to face him, distractedly straightening the pleats of Gamzee’s ruff, although Gamzee is certain that his appearance is already about as immaculate as he can manage. Really, he’s not certain why he _doesn’t_ resent the intrusion on his personal space, except that at this point it’s a familiar imposition coming from his Ancestor, and enough is uncertain right now that he’ll take whatever familiarity he can get. If he gets off of the Battleship Condescension alive, he’ll have plenty of time to hate the way the Grand Highblood drags him around.

“Real fucking soon,” the Highblood confirms, in a growl that’s more intimate than angry; still, the adult’s voice carries in the small space, and out of the corner of his eye, Gamzee’s pretty sure he can see the seadweller kids craning to hear as the Highblood continues, “You watch your mouth, kid. Don’t talk unless you’re fucking spoke to first. Use her _full_ title if you gotta address her, even if you hear your betters doing otherwise, hear?”

Gamzee’s not sure whether his ancestor is waiting for an answer or not, but after a brief pause he nods slowly. That seems to be sufficient answer, because the adult goes on - “And you eat anything offered to you.”

That direction’s surprising enough that Gamzee blinks in confusion, and can’t quite keep a baffled, “Uh, what?” from slipping out.

“Food. She offers, you accept,” the Grand Highblood repeats. “She wants you dead, it won’t be poison, it’ll be a culling fork. If she offers you food, she’s fucking _showing off_ and you play nice.”

Gamzee nods again, although he’s still not sure that eating is a thing he wants to be doing; skipping breakfast doesn’t seem to have done anything to resolve the way his gut is doing its best to tie itself in knots. Although of course there’s one thing he could eat that would fix that immediately – no. Not helpful. If he needs his wits about him, then he absolutely can’t indulge that line of thought right now, any more than he can _actually_ indulge.

If the Grand Highblood has any idea where Gamzee’s mind inevitably wanders in times of stress, he doesn’t give any indication; on the balance, Gamzee figures that probably his ancestor has enough on his own mind not to spend much time pondering what’s going on in Gamzee’s head. He can only hope, at least.

The Highblood’s hand rests heavy on his shoulder for another long moment, and then the uncomfortable not-quite-silence of the block is broken by the sound of the doors grinding open – a ponderous reveal of the block beyond that must have been carefully orchestrated, because it doesn’t seem as if it would be hard to design a door that opens smoothly and quietly. The various sedwellers file in, each of the subadults falling into step behind one of the adults, and then Gamzee finds that he and his ancestor are bringing up the tail of the procession, and he is not at all certain that he is remembering to breathe.

The Condesce’s throne room doubles as the helm of the Battleship Condescension.

Or perhaps it is that the helm of the Battleship Condescension doubles as the Condesce’s throne room.

In form, it’s not unlike the helm of the smaller ship that Gamzee had visited – a bit more than a week ago, now, though it seems like sweeps – with floor and ceiling disappearing into the shadows and the tangles of biopsionic cables, and the level that they’ve entered on a wide gallery midway between. The Empress perches too-casually on a dais rising from the edge of the balcony, on a golden throne that still somehow manages to look almost understated. Hanging in the cables almost directly behind her is what must – _must_ – be the Imperial Helmsman.

And Gamzee nearly trips over himself to see _either_ of them.

The Condesce – well, of course, it’s not as if he hadn’t _know_ what she was, what she looked like; there’s not a troll in the empire who doesn’t know her face and her horns and her form. She is taller than he had somehow expected. It’s hard to get an accurate read on _how_ tall when she’s seated, but she must be as tall as the Grand Highblood, perhaps taller. Slender, but the kind of slender that means quick harsh movements in the depths. A cloud of hair that makes her look twice her size.

He can see that Feferi is of a kind with her, the way that he is with the Grand Highblood. And she is more than Feferi, as the Grand Highblood is more than Gamzee. 

The Helmsman is less imposing, but more of a shock. So far as can be seen around the cables, the Helmsman tall for a lowblood, and – from the sign worked into his jumpsuit to the twinned horns – unmistakably of the same bloodline as Sollux. It’s a bizarre shock to recognize, all the stranger for that it perhaps shouldn’t be so much of a shock. Among their group, it’s no secret that the Gemini are profoundly psionically gifted; back on the barracks-carrier, the Grand Highblood had indicated an interest in the bloodline for what had seemed to be purely practical reasons. And lowbloods recur more often than high, for sheer reason of numbers. Perhaps it shouldn’t be such a surprise to find another of the Gemini bloodline in the helm of the flagship of the empire.

But it’s a very strange thing to try and connect _that_ theoretical individual with the dry computerized voice that had casually discovered and equally casually kept his secrets.

A few paces ahead of him, Gamzee can clearly see Eridan’s shoulders tense, and he hopes against hope that the seadweller doesn’t do anything _stupid_. If he’s worried about Eridan doing something stupid, does that mean he’s got his own shit together well enough to avoid doing something stupid himself?

On the balance, probably not. There’s more than enough dumbassery to go around, he figures.

The doors creak shut behind them, and there is definitely some vying for position among the seadwellers, though nothing loud or contentious – eight adults, Gamzee can count now, and while he’s no great skill at judging the ages of, well, any color, let alone one so long-lived as violets, he thinks there must be decades or centuries difference between the youngest of the adults and the three his own age. The Grand Highblood does not participate in this jockeying, but settles in front of the closed door. There is an air to the way he stands that suggests he is guarding something, although whether he is guarding against intrusion or escape, Gamzee is entirely unsure. He attempts to mirror his ancestor’s stance, feet shoulder-width apart, arms loose at the shoulders but tense in the wrists, chin raised just so, and he feels like a wiggler playing at being a subjugglator.

(he never really tried to play at subjugglation, not when he was little, and when he did it wasn’t _really_ a game, was it?)

He blinks back the memory, and shifts his weight a bit until his posture feels more natural.

The Condesce rises, not so much standing up as unfolding herself from the throne, and her footsteps ring against the tiled floor as she stalks past the gathered seadwellers. For a long terrible moment, Gamzee thinks that it’s _him_ she’s oriented on, but she barely seems to glance at him. It’s the Grand Highblood that those fuchsia eyes are focused on, and as she approaches, the Highblood crosses his arms over his chest in a gesture that looks mostly impatient and a little defensive.

Defensive isn’t, on reflection, a great look on the Grand Highblood. Gamzee takes a very small half-step away from the adults.

“Vitaldye, I ain’t seen you in _sweeps_ ,” the Condesce says, resting a hand on the Highblood’s folded arm.

The subjugglator shrugs the contact away. “Don’t fucking exaggerate,” he growls. “It’s been less than two, and you damn well know it.”

The empress actually pouts at that. “That’s still sweeps.”

“It’s how long Ironsalt has been fucking dead,” he replies. “I gotta remind you we _agreed_ it’s best we don’t rush this kind of shit?”

“We been past ‘respectful’ into ‘coy’ for perigees now. It ain’t like we don’t know how this all works. He wasn’t even close to our first,” she says, her tone almost exaggeratedly reasonable; she glances back, over her shoulder, her gaze sweeping entirely past Gamzee to linger a long moment on the other attendant trolls. Gamzee hastily makes an effort to be looking anywhere other than the empress, and in doing so, sees that most of the seadwellers are doing the same. The throne room is awash in undercurrents of nerves that Gamzee hardly _needs_ chucklevoodoos to recognize – less outright fear than profound unease, though. Can embarrassment be a sort of fear? He wouldn’t have said so, but he’s starting to reconsider that position. He’s also starting to consider whether he can safely take another step to the side, away from the two most powerful trolls in the empire.

And then – directionless as always, though the source is physically present now – the familiar computerized voice sighs, “Would you two just fucking get a block? Maybe a block that isn’t on _my_ – ?”

The Helmsman’s voice is cut off as the Condesce snarls, into empty space, “Override Pisces-omega-psi.”

In the brief moment that the Condesce’s attention is focused elsewhere, the Grand Highblood takes advantage of her distraction; the motion is quick and precise enough that Gamzee only kind of sees it out of the corner of his eye, but when he looks back up at them, the indigo adult has a fist balled in the empress’s hair, just below one of her horns. “I _will_ cull any motherfucker you fucking nominate in front of this assembly, Sea-Queen,” he hisses. “I see the fuck what you are trying and it is not even the most remote relation to funny.”

The Condesce shows teeth. “Maybe I oughta. What d’ya think, do I start with the ones you’ve known forever, or the little ones? Never figured why you got a soft spot for them, honestly.”

“Aight, bitch, you don’t gotta prove the quadrant,” the Highblood growls, slowly releasing his grip and lowering his hand – a bit too late for Gamzee’s comfort, and though he can’t quite pick out the fear of individuals when he’s familiar with so few of the crowd and he’s not the one inflicting the fear, he can feel that he’s not alone in that sentiment. “We’ll talk. Like adults. Later.”

“Before you leave,” the Condesce says, voice gone sweet again. She steps back and shakes out her mane of hair where the Grand Highblood’s hand had mussed it as she returns to the throne. Once settled, she looks around brightly. “Right! Where were we... let’s see what fresh meat ain’t too chickenshit to show the fuck up, huh? Since the _interesting_ one ain’t here.”

She looks over the group, then points to Eridan. “Why don’t we start with you, huh?”

Eridan shows a remarkable degree of composure, considering that when Gamzee hazards focusing the more perceptual aspects of chucklevoodoos on him, the seadweller boy is quite clearly terrified. It doesn’t show, much, in the set of his shoulders and the measured pace with which he steps out in front of the empress and bows. She leaves him hanging a long moment, before acknowledging him with, “Yeah, get on wit’ it. Who are you?”

“Eridan Ampora, Your Imperious Condescension,” Eridan says. Gamzee can’t see his face from here, but his voice is even enough. “Line a’ Aquarius, apprenticed to Navitrix Gildclaw on the Barracks-Transport Levity.”

“That ain’t boring you?” the Condesce asks, and she sounds genuinely curious. “Usually kids figure that’s a shitty kind of first posting.”

This seems a little rude to say, well, right in front of the officer in question, but the Navitrix doesn’t betray any offense at the suggestion, and Eridan shrugs.

“I’m not plannin’ on staying with the big ships forever, but knowin’ where I’m goin’s a skill for any vessel,” he replies.

This seems to satisfy the Condesce; she waves Eridan off, and he kind of fades back with another glance up at the quiescent Helmsman. Gamzee wishes he could get an idea of what’s going on in the seadweller’s thinkpan beyond just shades of fear.

He doesn’t have a lot of time to wish that, though, because suddenly he doesn’t really have the attention to spare for anyone else’s fear, when the Condesce looks straight at him and narrows her eyes slightly. “You. Junior Capricorn.”

Gamzee hasn’t quite put himself together enough to go out of his own volition when the Grand Highblood reaches over and gives him a little push between the shoulderblades; he somehow manages not to stumble as he steps forward between the rows of gathered seadwellers. He’s not sure whether he ought to bow or salute or what, and what he does is both, in a gesture that with better preparation might have been a flourish but as it is in practice very close to flailing. Holding it feels even more ridiculous, so he straightens again, stands more or less at attention, not sure he wants to or dares look directly at the Condesce. 

The empress stands and circles around him, steady footsteps, hips swinging in a way that has to be intentional; Gamzee still hasn’t found the wherewithal to look her in the face – should he, even, without prompting? – but he can practically feel her gaze boring into him. When she’s come around, not in front of him but three quarters of the way around, she reaches over, catches one crooked finger under his chin and turns his head to look up at her. Her knuckle rests neatly against the underside of his jaw, far back from any risk of smudging paint but far too close to his throat for any degree of comfort. 

“You got a name?” she asks. “Vitaldye ain’t ever called you anything but ‘the Capricorn’ or ‘the kid’ in his reports.”

“Gamzee Makara, Your Imperious Condescension,” he replies, and then once he’s started talking it seems like his mouth has a mind of its own because against all advice and discretion, he adds, “But ain’t sure _he_ cares to know it though.”

The Condesce lets her hand drop, and she smirks. “Somehow I doubt it,” she says, and stares pensively at him for a moment before adding, “Aw, what the fuck. You’re good.”

Gamzee blinks stupidly at her. “Uh, what? Ma’am. Your Condescension.”

“You’re good. Mouthy little asshole. It’ll be entertaining to listen to him whine about you,” she repeats, although Gamzee still doesn’t really process what’s being said until she adds, “Get outta my way, brat.”

It’s a dismissal, and he’s still alive, and honestly that’s about all he can ask. Gamzee jerks another awkward bow, and then hurries back to his ancestor’s side. It’s often difficult to get a read on the Grand Highblood, chucklevoodoo or no chucklevoodoo, but as Gamzee steps back into place, the Highblood hisses a sigh behind clenched teeth, and it sounds almost relieved.

The Condesce ignores him, turning her attention to Elfare, instead. “And you’re the Pharos fry,” she says, as the girl dips a curtsy. 

“Elfare Xandri, Your Imperious Condescension,” she replies. “Studying under Astrarch Warflare.”

“I hear you figured yourself a little ringleader,” the Condesce comments, raising an eyebrow. “Seeing who you can get at your beck and call. A little ahead of yourself, ain’t you? You ain’t even double digits and you’re finding yourself a fucking faction?”

“That isn’t how it is, your Condescension,” Elfare replies, her voice not _quite_ steady. Put on the spot, she’s a bright spot of fear in a gathering which has by now mostly regained their equilibrium. “There’s nothing... political intended.”

“Then you’re _stupid_ , girly,” the Condesce says, with a quick movement toward the younger seadweller that isn’t quite a lunge.

Elfare takes a step backward which, Gamzee thinks, is probably entirely involuntarily, accompanied as it is by a bright flash of near-panic. It’s not Elfare’s reaction that grinds the audience to a horrible stop, though.

Among the assembly, Otarin takes a step _forward_ that must be equally reflexive, because it’s accompanied by the unmistakable twist of the wrist that deploys a weapon from a strife deck, and no sane troll would voluntarily draw a weapon in the presence of Her Imperious Condescension. The seadweller boy plainly realizes this, but not until the weapons in question have damningly materialized, clawed gauntlets settling over the backs of his hands. Just as quickly, he dismisses them, but that’s not a gesture that can be taken back, and at any rate the moment it takes to stash the claws is a moment that he can’t react to the Grand Highblood springing forward and backhanding him to the floor.

The Condesce’s attention is wholly diverted from Elfare now; the seadweller girl seems practically paralyzed with fear, and the drama with the boy is more interesting, after all. She laughs as Otarin tries to pull away, but one of his wrists is pinned beneath the Highblood’s boot, and when he tries to get it free the Subjugglator in Chief shifts his weight in a way that elicits a gasp of pain. When the Highblood reaches for a weapon of his own, though – for of course he _does_ have the privilege of bearing arms in the empress’s presence, if only for her purposes – the Condesce shakes her head, holds up a hand to belay the action. “Nah, boo, hold him. I got another idea.”

Both the Condesce and the Grand Highblood seem totally focused on Otarin now, but Gamzee’s a bit distracted by the fact that as the initial shock wears off, he can sense Elfare’s overwhelming fear starting to fade. And that’s not a good sign, because as her fear for herself trickles away, it’s being replaced by... something Gamzee can’t quite put a finger on, something that’s not _fear_ enough to be clear to his chucklevoodoo. Her eyes narrow a little, and before she can _do_ anything, Gamzee reaches out with his ‘voodoo and slams the fear back into place.

It’s not as effective as it might be on a lowblood, but it’s easier than trying to do the same to one of the other indigos, with their own chucklevoodoo and their own understanding of fear. For the moment, Elfare is again too frightened to try anything. He just hopes he can hold her like that. She’d been nice enough to him, after all.

The drama continues to unfold – and for all that it’s deadly serious, there’s definitely something of a performance about what’s going down. The Condesce pauses for a moment, twisting a strand of hair around her fingers. “You know, I really feel like I’m forgetting something... Ah! Of course. _Condescension override Pisces-Gemini-alpha-twelve-two_.”

In the biopsionic array, the Helmsman twitches slightly; behind his goggle-plate, he blinks mismatched eyes, but when he speaks it’s still through the decentralized, computerized voice, which starts out almost bored and amps up to something hugely distressed. “Honestly, done fucking with them alrea- Oh, oh fuck you, you soggy bitch, what the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

“Oh, shut up,” the Condesce sighs, as she makes her way over to where the Highblood has Otarin pinned. “You don’t even know what’s going on.”

“Like there’s a lot of reasons you’d just bring me back online when you’re already annoyed with me, I’m not _stupid_ ,” the Helmsman retorts. “Come on, seriously, that’s just a kid.”

The empress doesn’t respond; rather, she drops into a crouch and, almost tenderly, she reaches out and cups her hand against the side of the seadweller boy’s face. The way that Otarin slumps lifeless to the ground is almost anticlimactic. Gamzee wouldn’t be sure of what has just happened, except that the palpable aura of fear coming from the doomed troll is abruptly snuffed out entirely.

When the Condesce looks up, just for a moment Gamzee thinks can see the twinned green tendrils of the Incipisphere’s insignia of Life glint in her eyes.

Just for a moment. He’s distracted, trying to keep a grip on Elfare; he almost misses it, and almost thinks he imagines it.

Then she stands, and goes up, circling around the throne on the dais to the very edge of the gallery, where she can reach out and easily touch the Helmsman. He jerks under her touch, breath coming quicker under the tangle of cables.

“See? Ain’t that better?” she says.

Apparently whatever it is isn’t better in the Helmsman’s opinion, because the artificial voice _immediately_ snarls, “Fuck you, fuck you, you condescending asshole, you think you’re going to –“

“Override Capricorn-Gemini-prime-omega,” the Grand Highblood snaps, and the Helmsman’s voice goes silent, leaving Gamzee with the oddest feeling that somehow, from somewhere, he recognizes the particular litany of profanity that the Helmsman had begun. Something about the meter of it, though he can’t figure out what it is or why he’d recognize anything the Imperial Helmsman would say.

Her Imperious Condescension looks back over her shoulder. “Guess I don’t gotta ask anything about that one,” she says. “The other three’a ya can scram. The grownups need to talk.”

Behind Gamzee, the doors start to grind open. He lets his grip on Elfare’s emotions slip away; she doesn’t immediately move toward the now-open escape, but Eridan grabs her wrist as he goes past, and she doesn’t resist his hauling her along, so Gamzee figures that she’s probably covered and doesn’t waste any time fleeing the throne room himself.


	33. A Teachable Opportunity

Gamzee thinks, maybe, that he’d like to talk to Eridan – compare notes on what the fuck just happened in there, or maybe just reaffirm that the both of them did in fact come face to face with the Condesce and leave with their skins intact – but neither of the surviving seadweller kids seem inclined to stay and chat. Before the doors of the throne room have even settled closed, Elfare has dove almost without a splash into one of the antechamber’s pools and disappeared into the flooded passage beneath. Eridan pauses just long enough to give Gamzee a look that the clown finds himself utterly unable to interpret, tense around the brow and mouth and fins, before wordlessly turning to follow her.

Alone in the antechamber with the rippling reflections of the recently-disturbed pool, Gamzee almost wishes he could follow as well, but even if he could swim well – which he can’t, hardly, at all – he’s got enough caution of seadwellers left to know better than to venture into an enclosed, flooded space with one that’s already distraught. And what kind of fucking ignominious end would that be, to have somehow avoided the Condesce’s disfavor and then immediately turn around and get his ass murdered by Elfare? Nah.

If he wants to put distance between himself and the disaster he just fled, it’ll have to be alone and on foot, and it doesn’t even really occur to him that maybe he _shouldn’t_ until he’s already started down the corridor outside. Gamzee thinks maybe he ought to go back and wait, but he really doesn’t want to. It’s not like he’s going to go anywhere he’s not supposed to be.

And fuck it, it’s not like he’s particularly in a mood to make his ancestor’s life simpler right now. Let the Grand Highblood wonder where he is a bit, it’s not like he can actually claim a lot of high ground on the “acting like a reasonable adult” issue at the moment, for all of his centuries. Now that the fear of the moment is fading – shit, that whole drama between the Condesce and the Grand Highblood seems completely ridiculous. Is that what it looks like when he and Sephar start squabbling, Gamzee wonders? Less the very real threat of death to everyone within earshot, of course.

If so, well, thank the messiahs for Arsast, honestly.

He walks slower than he had on the way to the imperial audience, setting his own pace now, and if at the time he’d been too nervous to be tired by the punishingly brisk pace the Grand Highblood had set earlier, now that’s catching up with him, and the emotional fatigue of past existential terror with it. Still, if he’s not hurrying, if he’s slouching and dragging his feet a little, it’s not as if there’s anyone here to judge. He doesn’t know if the Battleship Condescension is more sparsely populated than most ships he’s been on, or if the battelship’s staff simply doesn’t have call to be down these particular corridors tonight, but Gamzee doesn’t see another soul on his trek back to his own lodgings. It gives him space to think, but then again, he’s not sure whether that’s a good thing just now.

It’s still not even much past midnight when he fumbles his way past the security checkpoints and into the Capricorn suite, although it feels like this evening was a week ago. 

He shrugs out of the cape and coat, stashing both in his sylladex – he doesn’t know and doesn’t care to think when he’ll need something that fine again, but as they’d apparently been made up for him particularly and as he’s pretty sure they’d need to be made over entirely for someone of another sign _anyway_ , with the capricorn sigils worked into the trim in ways he doesn’t really have the fashion vocabulary to describe, he figures he might as well hold onto them unless expressly told otherwise. The silver clasp on the cape, though – as he fumbles it open, he finds that it’s a separate piece, closer really to being a broach. It looks old; he’s not even sure how one would tell the age of a piece of silver jewelry, but it’s a heavy piece, edges blunted slightly as if by repeated polishing, bits of dark tarnish caught where the loops and turns of the sign of capricorn leave narrow little corners.

After a long moment’s consideration, he goes into the entertaining block, over to the long table at the end of the block that seems most to be trying to be an adminisblock, where a scattering of papers and other detritus of official business indicates an attempt to keep up with the business of the empire or, at least, a willingness to go through the motions if anyone bothers to look. He finds an empty space in the middle, a gap that seems to exist for lack of any more of the Highblood’s shit to leave lying around rather than as the result of any organizational system, and he places the silver clasp on the tabletop.

At the other end of the block, the breakfast tray still sits at the corner of a side table, still nearly half full. All the hot food has gone cold and the cold food has gone warm, of course, but Gamzee’s suddenly aware of how hungry he is, and he figures he’s eaten food a lot more questionable than “left out for a few hours” in the past. Some of it might be a little dry, but there’s no way even the grub-sausage rolls have actually gone _off_ yet. Might as well eat.

Eat, and then... figure out what to do with himself, he guesses. The tension of the past few days has faded, but it’s taken with it any sense of direction or purpose in this situation.

Hours later, Gamzee looks up from his husktop at the sound of the outer door of the suite opening and closing, and there’s a flicker of something that’s not quite relief but might be some kind of pleased resignation that crosses the Grand Highblood’s face when he sees the younger troll.

“You ain’t got any pressing reason to stick around here another week or more,” the Highblood says, as he walks past Gamzee; for his part, Gamzee _almost_ wonders if it’s a question, but even if it _is_ a question, he’s pretty well in agreement. The adult doesn’t seem to expect any kind of answer, anyway, as he continues, “The Navitrix is getting antsy about being away from her post, her and her apprentice are heading back in a couple hours. Might as well stick you on the ship with them.”

“What about you?” Gamzee asks, before he’s quite considered whether it’s a wise question; the Grand Highblood looks back over his shoulder and scowls.

“You _really_ think after the fucking scene you just saw I’m _done_ around here?” he asks incredulously. Annoyed, maybe, a little resigned. Angry, but not in Gamzee’s actual direction for a change. “All the more reason I ain’t got to have you underfoot.”

Gamzee decides he doesn’t really want to know what his Ancestor doesn’t want him underfoot for. He snaps the husktop closed and tosses it into his sylladex. “Imma go get a look if I got all my shit up outta my block, then,” he says, and when the Highblood doesn’t contradict him, he goes off to see if there’s anything he’s left lying around.

Of course, it’s not like he brought a great deal with him, and it doesn’t take him long to locate and retrieve the pair of socks which somehow have gotten kicked behind the recuperacoon. Nothing else seems to be misplaced or displaced, but looking for his stuff was mostly just an excuse to get out of the entertaining block and away from the Grand Highblood before the older troll’s mood sours further anyway. So he dallies a bit longer, until he starts to feel that it’s been too long for the “packing” excuse to really hold up, and then ventures out of his borrowed respiteblock again.

The Highblood’s still in the entertaining block, still at his makeshift desk; he doesn’t look up as Gamzee looks in, but he’s certainly aware of the younger clown’s presence, because he asks, “Got everything?”

“Yessir,” Gamzee says.

And now the Grand Highblood does look up, although perhaps it’s more of a glare than a glance. “You fucking sure about that?”

Gamzee blinks. “Uh, yeah, I’m pretty motherfucking certain?”

“Get over here,” the Highblood commands, and though Gamzee’s mystified and not a little nervous, he does in fact get over there. 

His ancestor reaches out, almost casually, to grab Gamzee’s wrist, and pull and twist his arm until his empty palm is proffered; not a violent gesture, really, as gestures from the Grand Highblood go, but not a particularly gentle one, either. He picks up the silver broach from where Gamzee left it, drops it into Gamzee’s forcibly outstretched hand, and folds the younger troll’s fingers around it. 

Gamzee blinks in confusion. He doesn’t make any move to try and pull away; he’s not entirely sure where the Grand Highblood’s head is at right now and he rather likes having his arm attached to his shoulder. “Figured that bit of motherfucking bling was at being yours, sir,” he offers in explanation.

“I do not fucking _lend_ shit,” the Grand Highblood growls, but he releases his grip on Gamzee’s wrist without further fuss, so Gamzee figures that means he’s not actually _upset_ , per se. A little manhandling and glowering is practically diplomatic, after all, considering the source.

With a mute nod, Gamzee captchalogues the bit of heavy silver jewelry and watches it spin away through the cycling cards of his modus. It’s an odd feeling, owning – owning? – something that fine, that _grown up_ , an adult’s display of a sign rather than a child’s label. He can’t really imagine wearing it regular, pulling it out for more than just very special occasions, but somehow it’s gratifying to have the option.

“You got everyfuckingthing _else_ , though?” the Grand Highblood asks, snapping Gamzee out of his reverie.

“Figure so,” he replies.

The adult nods, standing. “Come on then, let’s get you on that cruiser before you have a chance to fucking wander off.”

Gamzee is pretty fucking sure that he’s not going to just wander off now, on the Battleship Condescension, when it would mean the difference between getting stuck here until his ancestor is ready to leave or getting his ass off this ship and back home immediately and in one piece, but he doesn’t say as much. Probably the Grand Highblood actually does know as much, anyway; probably, he’s just saying shit for the sake of blowing off steam and Gamzee happens to be a convenient target. Under that theory, Gamzee figures that just riding out the snide comments and getting out of the line of fire as quickly as possible is the least risky course of action, so he shrugs, and follows the adult out of the suite and into the battleship’s corridors.

Only once during the walk does the Grand Highblood break the silence; he doesn’t look back at Gamzee, but the question is unmistakably directed at him, anyway. “You were doing _something_ with the girl’s thinkpan, weren’t you.”

It’s just a shade to light to be an accusation, but it’s so sudden and so pointed it inspires a sudden stab of panic in Gamzee anyway. “Uh, a bit,” he acknowledges. “Didn’t do much. Didn’t think anyfucker would notice if I tried and kept her quiet.”

The Highblood snorts, a sound that’s not _quite_ a laugh. “You think I ain’t got the fucking capability to tell when another’s using chucklevoodoo in my presence?” he asks. “Fuck, kid, you oughta be able to do that by now.”

Oh. “Maybe I can kinda like,” Gamzee says – he hasn’t really thought of it in those terms, before, but he guesses he does kind of get some feedback when someone else starts slinging fear around, and it’s strongest when it’s his ancestor doing it.

“Wasn’t fucking needful, but you may have simplified shit a bit,” the Grand Highblood adds. 

Gamzee thinks that maybe, just maybe? That might count as praise. He’s not sure, but it’s rare enough the Highblood offers him praise for something he actually already feels kind of _good_ about doing that he’s not going to ask for clarification, just in case it’s not.

In fact, he’s not going to ask _anything_ and break the silence, so since the Grand Highblood seems to have run out of thinks he pressingly needs to pass along, they pass the rest of the walk in silence.

They arrive ahead of the Navitrix, but only barely; she approaches from the other direction along the corridor, the seadweller woman from earlier with the almost vacant expression and more jewelry on her fingers and talons than really seems practical, the one Eridan was and still is trailing after. She looks a little surprised, in a sleepy kind of way, to see the two clowns there. Her posture doesn’t betray her wariness, but there’s a bit of it in her voice as she comments, “Hadn’t figured you would have straightened things out with the Condesce yet, Vitaldye. Jumping ship already?”

The Grand Highblood makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “Not hardly. Just shoving the kid on a fucking lifeboat on my way past, as it were.”

“And my having taken an apprentice this sweep means I want more children underfoot – am I suddenly jade?” the Navitrix asks; behind her, Eridan shifts his weight from one foot to the other and, seeing Gamzee looking at him, gives a shrug that’s a little apologetic.

“I ain’t gonna make any trouble out in your way,” Gamzee offers.

The Navitrix looks from the Grand Highblood to Gamzee and back again, and then lifts a glittering hand, empty and open-palmed, in a kind of gesture of put-upon capitulation. “Alright. You owe me one, your Levity,” she says, though she doesn’t speak the honorific with any more reverence than she had the Highblood’s personal name a moment before.

“I owe you like two and a fucking half already, Gildclaw,” the Highblood acknowledges. He gives Gamzee a little push toward the open passage of the airlock into the cruiser, as he continues to the Navitrix, “A word or three, though?”

She sighs. “If we must. Eridan, go along with you. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Gamzee doesn’t particularly stop to see if Eridan is in fact following along. He pauses just beyond the airlock, where he can step out of line of sight of the corridor but still kind of almost hear the rumble of hushed speech. A moment later Eridan passes by, pauses, and looks back over his shoulder at the clown.

“What the hell are you even doin’?”

“Trying to get some motherfucking eaves dropped,” Gamzee hisses in reply, and as if on cue, something actually audible echoes in from the Battleship corridor. 

Surprisingly, it’s the Navitrix who’s raised her voice, not the Grand Highblood - “You’re leaving me with _what_?”

The reply is less distinct from here, but Gamzee can at least pick out phrases, as apparently the Grand Highblood has slipped into his habit of shouting for emphasis – “motherfucking overreact” and “craven asshole” and “sopor ration.” Gamzee sighs.

“Aight. ‘S’all I needed at getting a know on, I figure,” he mutters, slipping out of his impromptu listening post and heading on into the ship. From the sound of it, at least he’s not going to need to try and broach the issue of his recuperacoon mix himself, which is a relief, even if it’s desperately embarrassing to have his ancestor offering the explanation loudly and angrily in a public space.

Eridan watches him, clearly still somewhat baffled, but he doesn’t ask further and Gamzee doesn’t feel any particular impulse to volunteer an explanation.

Anyway, it’s not like they won’t have time to speak before they get back to the barracks-carrier. Right now – well, he hadn’t slept much the day before, honestly, and for all that it’s not even properly morning yet, it’s been a long night. If no one’s demanding his attention immediately, he figures he might as well go collapse.

 

The ship isn’t the same on as Gamzee had traveled with the week before, but it’s the same class of light battlecruiser, and might as well be the same vessel except for those few idiosyncrasies any ship has, little irregularities of construction and maintenance. The crew, though naturally made up of different individuals, are a similar degree of cautiously uninterested in him, as long as he doesn’t get underfoot. This suits Gamzee just fine.

The Navitrix as well overwhelmingly ignores him; in the first couple of days they’re underway, Gamzee’s pretty sure she doesn’t say more than four or five words to him, and again, he’s ok with this.

He is somewhat gratified, however, when on the second evening out Eridan comes into the mess, grabs a tray of breakfast, and unceremoniously claims the seat across from Gamzee.

“Was starting to get all a motherfucking wonderment at if you was going to ninja your way around talking at me ever,” Gamzee comments.

Eridan rolls his eyes. “The Navitrix fuckin’ decided the voyage was a _teachable opportunity_ ,” he says. “Kept me busy most’a yesterday chartin’ different routes back.”

“All fucking night?” Gamzee asks, not sure if he’s appalled at what sounds like a lot of tedious work, or annoyed at what sounds like it might be a transparent excuse.

“Well, my _first_ attempt had some issues,” the seadweller admits. “Like it would’a thrown us straight _through_ a system that’s made up mostly a’ dense asteroid fields. She seemed to think I needed more practice on account’a that.”

Gamzee’s still not sure he believes that, but the claim is detailed enough that he’s not sure he wants to challenge it either, so he shrugs and changes the subject.

“Was, uh. Did Elfare get up at being alright after the shit went down?” he asks.

Eridan scowls. “Because lets than an hour after watchin’ the Condesce do some sort’a, fuck, _Lifey shit_ on someone Elf likes is such a great time to be makin’ judgment calls about her long-term stability, right?”

Hearing it put like that is enough to distract Gamzee from what he’d actually been asking, for the moment. “...You got at that understanding of what all went on too, huh.”

“Pretty hard to miss if you know what you’re lookin’ at,” Eridan agrees.

“Wasn’t like nothing I seen _our_ girl do, though? Not as I got up in the quests with her much, I mean, but...”

Eridan shakes his head. “Looked more like when Vri or Nep did somefin showy, maybe.”

Gamzee can’t remember if he’s ever actually _seen_ Nepeta use her Sgrub powers – not sure if he can even remember what her exact title was – and he’s never exactly spent a lot of time around Vriska if he can help it, so about all he can say to that is to agree, “Maybe.”

He sighs, pushing reconstituted eggs around his plate with a crust of toast, and tries again. “But I didn’t so much mean if the little sea-sister was all... well ad-fucking-justed, though. More like not completely addled.”

Eridan frowns, clearly confused. “I mean, she seemed pretty fuckin’ freaked the fuck out at the time,” he says. “Why do you even care?”

“I don’t got a whole lot of experience with motherfuckers got more psychic defenses by color than I do,” Gamzee says. 

“W-what?”

“Just hoping I didn’t shove too hard and break nothing what her own thinkpan can’t put back together for its ownself. I guess.”

“Why the fuck were you shovin’ anything at all?” Eridan demands.

Gamzee shrugs, more than a little uncomfortable suddenly, entirely uncertain how to weigh Eridan’s obvious discomfort against the Grand Highblood’s approval in terms of appropriate behavior. “Fear was all up at being her own anyway, bro,” he says. “Alls I did was to be keeping it be a thing that was happening. She’d’a done some motherfucking stupid shit if she ain’t been too scared to, you feel?”

Eridan scowls incredulously. “You’re tellin’ me you _psychologically crippled_ her for her own good.”

“I’m all _telling_ at you I fucking hope I _didn’t_ leave her crippled,” Gamzee insists.

The seadweller briefly buries his face in his hands with a sigh. “Damn, Gam, you’re fuckin’ scary when you’re actually tryin’ to be capable, you know that?” he says, when he surfaces again. It stings less than it might; Gamzee can’t feel any _particular_ fear associated with the words, but he thinks better of pointing that out and drawing attention to the more passive aspects of the chucklevoodoos. “I think she was gonna be ok, though. She was puttin’ together complete sentences an’ not tryin’ to fight things indiscriminately or nothin’, I mean.”

Gamzee nods. “Aight. I s’pose that’s something.”

Eridan turns his attention pointedly to his food, and after a long moment, unsure how to salvage the conversation and not wanting to further alienate the guy who already has shown every willingness to just completely drop off the radar, Gamzee wordlessly gets up and goes.

 

One of the major differences between this voyage and the one out, Gamzee finds, is that he has little competition for the observation deck now; what had been the favorite haunt of both ranking adults on the other ship is, here, deserted as often as not, and at predictable intervals at that.

It’s morning – late morning, not that that makes much difference out of the reach of any sun or planetary rotation, except in that the ships of the fleet keep something resembling Alternia’s schedule and therefore it’s well past the time that he ought to be in the recuperacoon, however thin the slime in that recuperacoon might be – but Gamzee is lingering with the quiet and the view for a few more minutes, sitting crosslegged on the floor, right up at the middle of the wall of plashield viewports. After several days flitting through mostly-empty space, they’ve come into a wing of the imperial fleet again now, picking their way slow and careful through the massive dance of Alternain ships. They’re due to the barracks-transport sometime the next night, a shorter trip than the one out, by more than a day, but perhaps that’s the advantage of traveling with an expert navigator.

He’s lonesome and bored and restless. As a kid, though he’d had frequent internet contact with his friends, he’d sometimes gone perigees without seeing any other troll face-to-face; now, two weeks and change without attending Carnival services seem almost impossibly empty.

Honestly, he’s so caught up in how isolated he feels that when he hears the door opening behind him, he’s actually kind of annoyed. Although he doesn’t turn to look, he doesn’t really need to; the light from the corridor outside throws reflections on the windows, and though the other troll is mostly in silhouette, Eridan’s stature and horns are distinctive enough.

A moment later, the door closes again, and Eridan comes over to stand at the windows as well, far enough from where Gamzee sits that it’s not entirely companionable, but near enough that though his voice is almost conspiratorially low, Gamzee has no trouble hearing him when he speaks.

“So, now we’re clear of the Condescension, you gonna tell me _how_ you’re in contact with the others?”

“Huh?” Gamzee asks, still a little off-balance from Eridan's sudden entrance.

“C’mon, you straight-up _told_ me you got a direct line to the rest,” Eridan elaborates. “What you didn’t say was _how_.”

“Oh. Fuck. I don’t got a real tight understanding on the mechanics of the shit, bro,” Gamzee says. “Came in kinda late on the whole show my own self, actually? It’s something what all Solbro figured out how to be doing. And our legalsis handles shit on our end.”

“But it’s secure,” Eridan presses. “It’s not gonna point anyone at them all.”

“Far as I fucking know, yeah,” Gamzee assures him. “Sollux coded it all up himself. You know the bitchtits ridiculous stunts he can be doing with a computer, bro.”

Eridan nods tersely. “An’ how paranoid he can get,” he agrees. “Him and Ter both.”

“We are all up ins good graspprongs, bro,” Gamzee says.

The seadweller frowns. “As close as we’re gonna get to it, anyway,” he says, after a long moment.

“Brother -” Gamzee begins, not sure where his objection is going, exactly, but objecting nonetheless.

“We aren’t heroes, Gam,” Eridan interrupts, a little peevishly, a little resigned. “None of us are. We had our chance at that an’ we fucked it up an’ now we’re just us, for whatever good that does.”

Before Gamzee can figure out what to say to _that_ , the seadweller turns and leaves, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the view of the far-flung strongholds of adult society.


End file.
